Today has not been one of Tony DiNozzo’s best.
It began bright and early after a night in which he got about two hours of sleep, if that. He had gone to lit at ten and, over the course of the suivant eight hours, tossed and turned, got up for a glass of ice water, worried about Ziva, longed for her. Since returning from Israel weeks ago, most of his nights have gone exactly like this. He has been constantly exhausted, both physically and emotionally. Just so damn tired.
But there was work to be done, and so, at the break of dawn, he dragged his sorry cul, ass to the office. There, he chugged about five cups of coffee- the one thing that has been his saving grace in all of this- and was feeling a bit better par the time they were called out to a crime scene. He mindlessly began going through the motions of bagging evidence and taking pictures. This was routine; this felt natural to him. This, he could do.
Until McGee ran the victim’s fingerprint and announced that the young Marine’s name was Preston Garza, and the world was thrown off kilter once again.
"Wait," Tony said. "Are toi sure?"
"That’s what it says."
Tony squatted beside the corpse and studied his features. Preston Garza had only been fifteen years old when his older brother, a loyal member of a Baltimore rue gang, was shot and killed in a drug deal gone bad. That was a decade ago. His face is still ingrained in Tony’s memory, though, because when Tony showed up on the family’s doorstep to deliver the news, Preston answered the door.
"Damn," he sighed, staring at the other Garza boy’s dead body. "That’s him."
"You know him?" McGee asked incredulously.
"Not really." Tony stood. His knees popped loudly as he went. In the distance, he saw Gibbs speaking to a uniformed police officer. "Long story. Wouldn’t be surprised if that guy with Gibbs is from Baltimore PD, though."
McGee continued to stare at him. Tony turned away.
It was only nine in the morning, but he was already wishing he could crawl under a rock and disappear.
Three hours later, Tony is sick of the pissing match going on between Gibbs and the current captain of the Baltimore police department, who insists that he be kept informed of all developments in the case because of Garza’s presumed connections to the gang. He excuses himself from the squad room and escapes to autopsy, where, mercifully- Palmer is not somebody he wants to deal with today- he finds Ducky alone. The older man looks up from Garza’s body when the doors swoosh open. “Anthony,” he greets. “Very nice of toi to pay me a visit, but I have found nothing else of relevance since Jethro last came down.”
"That’s okay," Tony says. "Just needed some fresh air."
"Well, this is hardly the place to get it. Though I do suppose it is a bit too nippy outside for a walk."
Tony’s gaze lands on an empty metal slab. A mattress it is not, but, in his current state, anything that enables him to lie down is appealing. “You mind if I lie down for a bit?”
"Of course not," the doctor replies, sounding slightly bemused. For a minute ou so, the room is silent, save for the sound of him working and Tony attempting to make himself comfortable. As Tony folds his hands over his stomach, Ducky asks, "Long day?"
"You could say that."
"What else is on your mind?"
The obvious answer to that question hovers heavily in the air between them. A lump materializes in Tony’s throat; he forces it down. He has not cried since leaving Ziva in Israel, not one tear, but he fears that he is about to start a new pattern. He takes a couple deep breaths to composer himself. “I can’t sleep, Ducky. Ever since… toi know. Afraid I’m going cuckoo’s nest.”
"My dear boy." There is a clank of metal on metal as Ducky sets down a tool. "We all miss Ziva, but I know it is different for you."
Tony rolls his lips before glancing to his right- first at Ducky, then at the dead Marine. “Gibbs told toi how I was acquainted with Garza, right?”
"He did."
"Their parents only had the two boys. They’re childless now." He exhales heavily. "So, yeah, it’s been a long day. Not an easy one. And me and Ziva… we sort of stuck together when cases were hard. Got through them together. Now I’m here and she’s not and I… I don’t know. Maybe it was a codependent relationship. Maybe it wasn’t healthy. But I don’t care; I just want my partner back."
The ever-present ache in his chest grows a little bit stronger, a little plus painful. Nobody can reassure him the way she always could; nobody’s touch can comfort him the way hers did. He would do anything, give anything, to feel her squeeze his shoulder ou pat his chest one plus time. On days like these, he used to draw his strength from her.
And now, he is at rock bottom with no idea where to turn.
"I believe," Ducky says, "that it was perfectly healthy, what the two of toi shared. Lovely, in fact. Have toi spoken to her?"
"No."
"May I ask why not?"
He has picked up his phone to call her multiple times, but has not actually done it. They didn’t discuss the status of their relationship before he left. He isn’t sure where they stand, so he has decided to wait until Ziva contacts him. She will when she’s ready. That, he knows for a fact.
"Don’t want to push her," he reasons.
"Well, that is a perfectly viable reason, but be careful not to fall out of touch, Anthony. She may need to figure some things out for herself, but that does not mean that she doesn’t need her partner, too.”
Tony nods up at the ceiling. Maybe I’ll text her, he thinks just before his phone rings. He pulls it from his pocket and finds Gibbs’ number on the screen.
"Back to work," he says, swinging his legs over the side of the slab and standing up. "Thanks for the talk."
"Anytime, Anthony," Ducky calls after him. "Do tell Jethro that, in my professional opinion, toi need a longer lunch break than usual."
And as Tony pushes the button for the elevator, he cracks a smile for the first time all day.
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It is after he has devoured a Subway sandwich, "sandwich" at his bureau that Maria Garza arrives for her interview. Tony takes her up to the conference room and sits down across from her at the table. He questions her in a gentle voice. She cooperates fully. Her eyes are bloodshot and her sentences are punctuated with little sniffles, but she does not cry.
Not until she realizes who Tony is.
"You came to the house after Alex was killed," she gasps. "That was you.”
He doesn’t have time to respond before she drops her head into her hands and begins to sob loudly. Shifting uncomfortably, he pushes a box of Kleenex toward her.
"Thank you," she chokes out, wiping her eyes with a tissue. Crumpling it in her hand, she takes a deep breath. "Preston," she begins, clearly fighting to keep her composure, "was involved with the gang, too, for most of his teenage years. But his senior an of high school, he decided he wanted out. He joined the Navy. He found a purpose; he was helping people, making a difference, and he was happy." The corners of her lips turn up for a divisé, split seconde before falling back down. "He was a good boy. He made some poor decisions in the past, but he was trying to change. He had changed. Believe me, Agent DiNozzo. Please,” she begs.
The desperation of this woman is terribly familiar to him, because he has felt it, too. Just as she is sure of who her son was at heart, he knows who Ziva is beneath the gun and badge. And, yes, he also knows all about a person’s desire to change.
"I do believe you," he tells her. "We’re going to figure out what happened here."
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And that’s how, late that afternoon, he ends up walking up and down the streets of downtown Baltimore. Kids in hooded jackets and low-slung jeans eye him warily; he nods at them. If he were a beat cop, he would bark at them to quit loitering, to go inside and do their homework ou something.
That’s not why he’s here, though. He is here in chercher of Marcus Costas, the drug lord who was initially arrested for Alex Garza’s death but then released due to lack of evidence.
He is not under orders to be here. In fact, nobody knows that he is. He had waited until Gibbs was down in Abby’s lab, then fed McGee a flimsy excuse about needing to visit the bank before it closed and left. It isn’t his style to run off par himself on a gut feeling; usually, that is his boss’s role. But for whatever reason- maybe Maria Garza’s tears moved him; maybe the hole in his cœur, coeur has made him reckless; maybe he’s just an idiot- he is having trouble staying at his bureau and playing par the book today.
At a crosswalk, he pauses and turns in a full circle, taking in the battered buildings around him. There are houses on one side of the street. The other is populated par a couple mom and pop diners and an abandoned auto body boutique with a faded sign: Sal’s.
His stomach turns over when he realizes where he is. Without thinking twice, he pulls his phone from his pocket and presses number three on his speed dial.
"Hello?"
"Nice job identifying yourself," Tony says.
"I knew it was you. There’s this really cool thing they have now called caller ID. What do toi want?"
"I need a favor, McGee. toi can’t tell Gibbs."
"I thought toi were at the bank."
Ignoring this last comment, Tony continues, “Sal’s body boutique in downtown Baltimore. It’s out of business now, but who used to run it?”
A heavy sigh is followed par the tapping of keys. “Uh… guy named Miguel Gonzalez owned and operated it for thirty years, sold it nine years il y a to Marcus Costas, who promptly fired all the employees and shut down the business.”
Bingo. Just as he thought. “Thanks, Tim.”
"Tony, seriously, what are you-"
He hangs up. There will be plenty of time for explanations later.
His feet remember the route to the warehouse from which Costas runs his drug ring, and he is there within ten minutes. At the back door, Tony listens for the sounds of activity inside. None come. He pulls his weapon anyway, and then he breaks down the door.
"What the fuck was that?" he hears somebody say as he enters the dimly lit room. As his eyes adjust to the dark, he can see the outline of two men- one in his thirties, one only a teenager- who are holding plastic bags of cocaine in their hands.
"Federal agent," Tony declares in response. "Drop it."
The younger man does, looking fearful. Clearly, he is new to the game. But Marcus Costas grins widely, revealing a golden tooth that glitters in the fluorescent light. “Well, well. How nice of the federales to pay us a visit.” He looks at the other guy and jerks his chin. “Let me deal with him.”
The companion scampers off, leaving Tony and Costas alone. His blood is boiling and white-hot anger clouds his vision as he stares down this smug, cocky man who kills with no regret, who destroys lives without a seconde thought. “Smart,” he says finally, “buying the property toi killed Alex Garza on. Making sure toi were in possession of any evidence that might exist. I’m impressed.”
Costas shrugs. “I didn’t get this far par being an idiot.”
"Yeah, well, don’t get too full of yourself. toi aren’t that brilliant." Tony takes a step closer, gun still pointed in front of him. "I know toi killed Preston Garza."
"Just tying up loose ends," Costas says nonchalantly, as if it is no big deal that he has taken a mother’s only son. As if the murder was nothing plus than a business move. "We can’t have people out there who have turned on the Blood."
"We?" he spits out incredulously. "Come on, Marcus. We know it’s not about the we. It’s about the you. toi aren’t even loyal to your own men. toi would sacrifice any one of them in order to keep yourself in power.” His hands shake slightly as he moves even closer to Costas. “Now, that’s crack toi are oh-so-brilliantly waving around in plain sight, so I’m taking toi in for possession. But I assure toi that par this time tomorrow, you’ll have a murder charge to deal-“
That’s when Costas whips a gun out of nowhere and points it at Tony. His index finger moves to the trigger, but Tony beats him to it.
Bang. Bang.
Two in the chest.
And he falls.
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Costas is dead.
Baltimore PD is furious.
Vance is trying to smooth things over.
Gibbs won’t even talk to him.
While all of his superiors are gathered in the director’s office, Tony wanders around the squad room, lost. He has donné his statement; it is understood and accepted that he acted in self-defense. The issues that remain are political. They are nothing he can help resolve, which is cruel, considering that this is his mess.
He returns to his bureau and slides open the haut, retour au début drawer. Ziva’s étoile, star of David collier is in its compartment. For several seconds, he just looks at it; then he picks it up, clasps it tightly, and holds it to his chest.
This is exactly what she had wanted to escape.
The violence.
The blood.
And even though he can certainly see the appeal in leaving this all behind- especially right now, in his current situation- he also, selfishly, wishes she were here.
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After a while, he goes to the bathroom. He leans over the sink and splashes cold water on his face in an attempt to calm down, bring himself back to earth. He stares into the mirror, water dripping off his chin, eyes wide and frenzied, and wonders how he got to this point.
The door opens. Tony quickly straightens up and pretends to tighten his tie, but then the intruder comes to stand at his side.
"Hey, Boss," he says, trying for casual and not doing a very good job at it.
"Police captain left." No chit chat. At least Gibbs appears to be done giving him the cold shoulder. "What the hell happened, DiNozzo? Why did toi run off without telling anyone?"
Tony leans against the counter and drops his chin to his chest. “I don’t know,” he says honestly, speaking to the linoleum beneath his feet. “I guess… I can’t rely on my instincts any longer. Today, they had me violating protocol. They had me chasing down a gang leader on my own, almost getting killed… because he hurt people, and my mind was telling me to get him.” He risks a glance at Gibbs, who has his back pressed against the mur and is watching him closely. “My instincts told me to find Ziva.” And damn it, his voice cracks. “I was so convinced that if I found her… if I told her that- that I l’amour her… I really thought she would come home.” Swallowing hard, he admits the truth, the hardest truth he’s ever had to face in his life. “That was my gut feeling, and it was wrong. Just like it was wrong to run after that guy on an impulse.”
"DiNozzo-"
"Boss, I don’t know what’s happening to me. Something’s… maybe I need to go find myself, too, because-“
"Hey." Gibbs steps into his space, grabs him par the shoulders, turns him around. "DiNozzo, toi know what toi did today?"
"Yeah," he says flatly. "I killed a guy."
"You got justice for a family. toi prevented Marcus Costas from hurting anyone else. Sure, yeah, maybe toi didn’t go about it the right way, but the end result is still the same. And toi know what else toi did?"
"What?" Tony speaks quietly.
"You saved yourself." Leaning in close, Gibbs lowers his voice. "If your partner were here, that’s exactly what she would have wanted toi to do.”
Then he is gone, his exit just as rapide, swift as his entrance was, and Tony is left par the sink with a heavy cœur, coeur and a étoile, star of David weighing down his pocket.
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When toi shoot a suspect, there is a lot of paperwork to fill out, so at ten-thirty, Tony and his seventh cup of coffee are still at the office. He has been alone for about an heure now; the silence seems to echo around him. He does not like it.
His progress on his work is being hindered par his eyes and their tendency to wander over to Ziva’s desk. Nobody has moved there permanently yet; it is bare and desolate. As much as he doesn’t want a new person sitting in that chair, in some ways it might actually be a relief to see life in that corner again.
This thought makes him feel like a traitor, and he turns back to his computer. He has just placed his fingers on the keyboard when his cell phone rings out into the empty squad room.
Without looking at the caller ID, he réponses it. “DiNozzo.”
"Tony?"
The sweet voice startles him. He draws the phone away from his ear so he can see the number. And, yes, yes, it is her. A grin breaks out across his face. “Hey,” he says, pushing his chair back from the desk, the rapporter now the last thing on his mind. “Hey.”
She laughs. “Hey. How are you?”
"It’s been a long day, sweet cheeks," he sighs.
"Oh. Well, if this is a bad time-"
"No! No, Ziva, it’s fine." With a slightly embarrassed laugh, he rakes a hand through his hair. "I spent all jour wishing toi were here. So, really, this is great."
"Alright," she says softly, and her voice travels across the many miles between them and wraps itself around him like a warm blanket. "Would toi like to talk about it?"
Tony reaches up to his collarbone and touches the étoile, star of David there. He prefers to keep the collier in his desk, where it’s safe, but he just felt like he needed to have it on him tonight. “Nah,” he says. “I want to hear about you. Tell me about you.”
So she does, her words full of warmth, her sentences punctuated with laughter that he can’t help but echo. And although this separation has been hard on both of them, he must admit that she does sound better.
She sounds happier.
And that’s all he could ever want for her.
"Listen," she says finally, "I have decided to go to Europe suivant month, and I was wondering if… if it would be possible for toi to get some time off, and maybe we could meet up in Paris? toi know, for old time’s sake?" He can almost see her chewing nervously on her lower lip. There is no need for her to worry, though. No need at all.
"Tell me when," he says. "I’ll be there."
"I will be in touch," she replies, sounding extremely relieved. They sit in comfortable silence for several seconds. "Tony?"
"Hmm?"
"Call me whenever toi need to, whenever toi like," Ziva says. "You are still my best friend. Nothing has changed in that regard."
A solitary tear falls down his cheek, but he doesn’t bother brushing it away. “I know. Ziva?”
"Yes."
"I l’amour you."
"I l’amour you, too."
And he thinks he’ll make it another day.
It began bright and early after a night in which he got about two hours of sleep, if that. He had gone to lit at ten and, over the course of the suivant eight hours, tossed and turned, got up for a glass of ice water, worried about Ziva, longed for her. Since returning from Israel weeks ago, most of his nights have gone exactly like this. He has been constantly exhausted, both physically and emotionally. Just so damn tired.
But there was work to be done, and so, at the break of dawn, he dragged his sorry cul, ass to the office. There, he chugged about five cups of coffee- the one thing that has been his saving grace in all of this- and was feeling a bit better par the time they were called out to a crime scene. He mindlessly began going through the motions of bagging evidence and taking pictures. This was routine; this felt natural to him. This, he could do.
Until McGee ran the victim’s fingerprint and announced that the young Marine’s name was Preston Garza, and the world was thrown off kilter once again.
"Wait," Tony said. "Are toi sure?"
"That’s what it says."
Tony squatted beside the corpse and studied his features. Preston Garza had only been fifteen years old when his older brother, a loyal member of a Baltimore rue gang, was shot and killed in a drug deal gone bad. That was a decade ago. His face is still ingrained in Tony’s memory, though, because when Tony showed up on the family’s doorstep to deliver the news, Preston answered the door.
"Damn," he sighed, staring at the other Garza boy’s dead body. "That’s him."
"You know him?" McGee asked incredulously.
"Not really." Tony stood. His knees popped loudly as he went. In the distance, he saw Gibbs speaking to a uniformed police officer. "Long story. Wouldn’t be surprised if that guy with Gibbs is from Baltimore PD, though."
McGee continued to stare at him. Tony turned away.
It was only nine in the morning, but he was already wishing he could crawl under a rock and disappear.
Three hours later, Tony is sick of the pissing match going on between Gibbs and the current captain of the Baltimore police department, who insists that he be kept informed of all developments in the case because of Garza’s presumed connections to the gang. He excuses himself from the squad room and escapes to autopsy, where, mercifully- Palmer is not somebody he wants to deal with today- he finds Ducky alone. The older man looks up from Garza’s body when the doors swoosh open. “Anthony,” he greets. “Very nice of toi to pay me a visit, but I have found nothing else of relevance since Jethro last came down.”
"That’s okay," Tony says. "Just needed some fresh air."
"Well, this is hardly the place to get it. Though I do suppose it is a bit too nippy outside for a walk."
Tony’s gaze lands on an empty metal slab. A mattress it is not, but, in his current state, anything that enables him to lie down is appealing. “You mind if I lie down for a bit?”
"Of course not," the doctor replies, sounding slightly bemused. For a minute ou so, the room is silent, save for the sound of him working and Tony attempting to make himself comfortable. As Tony folds his hands over his stomach, Ducky asks, "Long day?"
"You could say that."
"What else is on your mind?"
The obvious answer to that question hovers heavily in the air between them. A lump materializes in Tony’s throat; he forces it down. He has not cried since leaving Ziva in Israel, not one tear, but he fears that he is about to start a new pattern. He takes a couple deep breaths to composer himself. “I can’t sleep, Ducky. Ever since… toi know. Afraid I’m going cuckoo’s nest.”
"My dear boy." There is a clank of metal on metal as Ducky sets down a tool. "We all miss Ziva, but I know it is different for you."
Tony rolls his lips before glancing to his right- first at Ducky, then at the dead Marine. “Gibbs told toi how I was acquainted with Garza, right?”
"He did."
"Their parents only had the two boys. They’re childless now." He exhales heavily. "So, yeah, it’s been a long day. Not an easy one. And me and Ziva… we sort of stuck together when cases were hard. Got through them together. Now I’m here and she’s not and I… I don’t know. Maybe it was a codependent relationship. Maybe it wasn’t healthy. But I don’t care; I just want my partner back."
The ever-present ache in his chest grows a little bit stronger, a little plus painful. Nobody can reassure him the way she always could; nobody’s touch can comfort him the way hers did. He would do anything, give anything, to feel her squeeze his shoulder ou pat his chest one plus time. On days like these, he used to draw his strength from her.
And now, he is at rock bottom with no idea where to turn.
"I believe," Ducky says, "that it was perfectly healthy, what the two of toi shared. Lovely, in fact. Have toi spoken to her?"
"No."
"May I ask why not?"
He has picked up his phone to call her multiple times, but has not actually done it. They didn’t discuss the status of their relationship before he left. He isn’t sure where they stand, so he has decided to wait until Ziva contacts him. She will when she’s ready. That, he knows for a fact.
"Don’t want to push her," he reasons.
"Well, that is a perfectly viable reason, but be careful not to fall out of touch, Anthony. She may need to figure some things out for herself, but that does not mean that she doesn’t need her partner, too.”
Tony nods up at the ceiling. Maybe I’ll text her, he thinks just before his phone rings. He pulls it from his pocket and finds Gibbs’ number on the screen.
"Back to work," he says, swinging his legs over the side of the slab and standing up. "Thanks for the talk."
"Anytime, Anthony," Ducky calls after him. "Do tell Jethro that, in my professional opinion, toi need a longer lunch break than usual."
And as Tony pushes the button for the elevator, he cracks a smile for the first time all day.
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It is after he has devoured a Subway sandwich, "sandwich" at his bureau that Maria Garza arrives for her interview. Tony takes her up to the conference room and sits down across from her at the table. He questions her in a gentle voice. She cooperates fully. Her eyes are bloodshot and her sentences are punctuated with little sniffles, but she does not cry.
Not until she realizes who Tony is.
"You came to the house after Alex was killed," she gasps. "That was you.”
He doesn’t have time to respond before she drops her head into her hands and begins to sob loudly. Shifting uncomfortably, he pushes a box of Kleenex toward her.
"Thank you," she chokes out, wiping her eyes with a tissue. Crumpling it in her hand, she takes a deep breath. "Preston," she begins, clearly fighting to keep her composure, "was involved with the gang, too, for most of his teenage years. But his senior an of high school, he decided he wanted out. He joined the Navy. He found a purpose; he was helping people, making a difference, and he was happy." The corners of her lips turn up for a divisé, split seconde before falling back down. "He was a good boy. He made some poor decisions in the past, but he was trying to change. He had changed. Believe me, Agent DiNozzo. Please,” she begs.
The desperation of this woman is terribly familiar to him, because he has felt it, too. Just as she is sure of who her son was at heart, he knows who Ziva is beneath the gun and badge. And, yes, he also knows all about a person’s desire to change.
"I do believe you," he tells her. "We’re going to figure out what happened here."
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And that’s how, late that afternoon, he ends up walking up and down the streets of downtown Baltimore. Kids in hooded jackets and low-slung jeans eye him warily; he nods at them. If he were a beat cop, he would bark at them to quit loitering, to go inside and do their homework ou something.
That’s not why he’s here, though. He is here in chercher of Marcus Costas, the drug lord who was initially arrested for Alex Garza’s death but then released due to lack of evidence.
He is not under orders to be here. In fact, nobody knows that he is. He had waited until Gibbs was down in Abby’s lab, then fed McGee a flimsy excuse about needing to visit the bank before it closed and left. It isn’t his style to run off par himself on a gut feeling; usually, that is his boss’s role. But for whatever reason- maybe Maria Garza’s tears moved him; maybe the hole in his cœur, coeur has made him reckless; maybe he’s just an idiot- he is having trouble staying at his bureau and playing par the book today.
At a crosswalk, he pauses and turns in a full circle, taking in the battered buildings around him. There are houses on one side of the street. The other is populated par a couple mom and pop diners and an abandoned auto body boutique with a faded sign: Sal’s.
His stomach turns over when he realizes where he is. Without thinking twice, he pulls his phone from his pocket and presses number three on his speed dial.
"Hello?"
"Nice job identifying yourself," Tony says.
"I knew it was you. There’s this really cool thing they have now called caller ID. What do toi want?"
"I need a favor, McGee. toi can’t tell Gibbs."
"I thought toi were at the bank."
Ignoring this last comment, Tony continues, “Sal’s body boutique in downtown Baltimore. It’s out of business now, but who used to run it?”
A heavy sigh is followed par the tapping of keys. “Uh… guy named Miguel Gonzalez owned and operated it for thirty years, sold it nine years il y a to Marcus Costas, who promptly fired all the employees and shut down the business.”
Bingo. Just as he thought. “Thanks, Tim.”
"Tony, seriously, what are you-"
He hangs up. There will be plenty of time for explanations later.
His feet remember the route to the warehouse from which Costas runs his drug ring, and he is there within ten minutes. At the back door, Tony listens for the sounds of activity inside. None come. He pulls his weapon anyway, and then he breaks down the door.
"What the fuck was that?" he hears somebody say as he enters the dimly lit room. As his eyes adjust to the dark, he can see the outline of two men- one in his thirties, one only a teenager- who are holding plastic bags of cocaine in their hands.
"Federal agent," Tony declares in response. "Drop it."
The younger man does, looking fearful. Clearly, he is new to the game. But Marcus Costas grins widely, revealing a golden tooth that glitters in the fluorescent light. “Well, well. How nice of the federales to pay us a visit.” He looks at the other guy and jerks his chin. “Let me deal with him.”
The companion scampers off, leaving Tony and Costas alone. His blood is boiling and white-hot anger clouds his vision as he stares down this smug, cocky man who kills with no regret, who destroys lives without a seconde thought. “Smart,” he says finally, “buying the property toi killed Alex Garza on. Making sure toi were in possession of any evidence that might exist. I’m impressed.”
Costas shrugs. “I didn’t get this far par being an idiot.”
"Yeah, well, don’t get too full of yourself. toi aren’t that brilliant." Tony takes a step closer, gun still pointed in front of him. "I know toi killed Preston Garza."
"Just tying up loose ends," Costas says nonchalantly, as if it is no big deal that he has taken a mother’s only son. As if the murder was nothing plus than a business move. "We can’t have people out there who have turned on the Blood."
"We?" he spits out incredulously. "Come on, Marcus. We know it’s not about the we. It’s about the you. toi aren’t even loyal to your own men. toi would sacrifice any one of them in order to keep yourself in power.” His hands shake slightly as he moves even closer to Costas. “Now, that’s crack toi are oh-so-brilliantly waving around in plain sight, so I’m taking toi in for possession. But I assure toi that par this time tomorrow, you’ll have a murder charge to deal-“
That’s when Costas whips a gun out of nowhere and points it at Tony. His index finger moves to the trigger, but Tony beats him to it.
Bang. Bang.
Two in the chest.
And he falls.
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Costas is dead.
Baltimore PD is furious.
Vance is trying to smooth things over.
Gibbs won’t even talk to him.
While all of his superiors are gathered in the director’s office, Tony wanders around the squad room, lost. He has donné his statement; it is understood and accepted that he acted in self-defense. The issues that remain are political. They are nothing he can help resolve, which is cruel, considering that this is his mess.
He returns to his bureau and slides open the haut, retour au début drawer. Ziva’s étoile, star of David collier is in its compartment. For several seconds, he just looks at it; then he picks it up, clasps it tightly, and holds it to his chest.
This is exactly what she had wanted to escape.
The violence.
The blood.
And even though he can certainly see the appeal in leaving this all behind- especially right now, in his current situation- he also, selfishly, wishes she were here.
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After a while, he goes to the bathroom. He leans over the sink and splashes cold water on his face in an attempt to calm down, bring himself back to earth. He stares into the mirror, water dripping off his chin, eyes wide and frenzied, and wonders how he got to this point.
The door opens. Tony quickly straightens up and pretends to tighten his tie, but then the intruder comes to stand at his side.
"Hey, Boss," he says, trying for casual and not doing a very good job at it.
"Police captain left." No chit chat. At least Gibbs appears to be done giving him the cold shoulder. "What the hell happened, DiNozzo? Why did toi run off without telling anyone?"
Tony leans against the counter and drops his chin to his chest. “I don’t know,” he says honestly, speaking to the linoleum beneath his feet. “I guess… I can’t rely on my instincts any longer. Today, they had me violating protocol. They had me chasing down a gang leader on my own, almost getting killed… because he hurt people, and my mind was telling me to get him.” He risks a glance at Gibbs, who has his back pressed against the mur and is watching him closely. “My instincts told me to find Ziva.” And damn it, his voice cracks. “I was so convinced that if I found her… if I told her that- that I l’amour her… I really thought she would come home.” Swallowing hard, he admits the truth, the hardest truth he’s ever had to face in his life. “That was my gut feeling, and it was wrong. Just like it was wrong to run after that guy on an impulse.”
"DiNozzo-"
"Boss, I don’t know what’s happening to me. Something’s… maybe I need to go find myself, too, because-“
"Hey." Gibbs steps into his space, grabs him par the shoulders, turns him around. "DiNozzo, toi know what toi did today?"
"Yeah," he says flatly. "I killed a guy."
"You got justice for a family. toi prevented Marcus Costas from hurting anyone else. Sure, yeah, maybe toi didn’t go about it the right way, but the end result is still the same. And toi know what else toi did?"
"What?" Tony speaks quietly.
"You saved yourself." Leaning in close, Gibbs lowers his voice. "If your partner were here, that’s exactly what she would have wanted toi to do.”
Then he is gone, his exit just as rapide, swift as his entrance was, and Tony is left par the sink with a heavy cœur, coeur and a étoile, star of David weighing down his pocket.
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When toi shoot a suspect, there is a lot of paperwork to fill out, so at ten-thirty, Tony and his seventh cup of coffee are still at the office. He has been alone for about an heure now; the silence seems to echo around him. He does not like it.
His progress on his work is being hindered par his eyes and their tendency to wander over to Ziva’s desk. Nobody has moved there permanently yet; it is bare and desolate. As much as he doesn’t want a new person sitting in that chair, in some ways it might actually be a relief to see life in that corner again.
This thought makes him feel like a traitor, and he turns back to his computer. He has just placed his fingers on the keyboard when his cell phone rings out into the empty squad room.
Without looking at the caller ID, he réponses it. “DiNozzo.”
"Tony?"
The sweet voice startles him. He draws the phone away from his ear so he can see the number. And, yes, yes, it is her. A grin breaks out across his face. “Hey,” he says, pushing his chair back from the desk, the rapporter now the last thing on his mind. “Hey.”
She laughs. “Hey. How are you?”
"It’s been a long day, sweet cheeks," he sighs.
"Oh. Well, if this is a bad time-"
"No! No, Ziva, it’s fine." With a slightly embarrassed laugh, he rakes a hand through his hair. "I spent all jour wishing toi were here. So, really, this is great."
"Alright," she says softly, and her voice travels across the many miles between them and wraps itself around him like a warm blanket. "Would toi like to talk about it?"
Tony reaches up to his collarbone and touches the étoile, star of David there. He prefers to keep the collier in his desk, where it’s safe, but he just felt like he needed to have it on him tonight. “Nah,” he says. “I want to hear about you. Tell me about you.”
So she does, her words full of warmth, her sentences punctuated with laughter that he can’t help but echo. And although this separation has been hard on both of them, he must admit that she does sound better.
She sounds happier.
And that’s all he could ever want for her.
"Listen," she says finally, "I have decided to go to Europe suivant month, and I was wondering if… if it would be possible for toi to get some time off, and maybe we could meet up in Paris? toi know, for old time’s sake?" He can almost see her chewing nervously on her lower lip. There is no need for her to worry, though. No need at all.
"Tell me when," he says. "I’ll be there."
"I will be in touch," she replies, sounding extremely relieved. They sit in comfortable silence for several seconds. "Tony?"
"Hmm?"
"Call me whenever toi need to, whenever toi like," Ziva says. "You are still my best friend. Nothing has changed in that regard."
A solitary tear falls down his cheek, but he doesn’t bother brushing it away. “I know. Ziva?”
"Yes."
"I l’amour you."
"I l’amour you, too."
And he thinks he’ll make it another day.
