Archive of Our Own

She is indeed late to arrive at Gibbs's home, and that is only in part because she ends up listening to the whole cd Tony made for her. His selection is touching and shows how much thought he put into it, and so, eventually, she is not only overwhelmed by the emotions she ties to memories, but by this simple realization: that Tony cared about this. About her.

And, in effect, this is the true thing responsible for her being late: the fact that she starts to cry halfway through his opera and cannot seem to stop. And yes: for a brief, all too fleeting moment it feels indeed like Tali is there with her, with her arm around her big sister's shoulders and her lips against Ziva's temple. Like she used to sit with her back in the day because there was no one else Ziva would allow to see her like that.

*** *** ***

She is nervous when she parks the car, and before she gets out, she checks her face in the mirror. Her eyes look normal, mostly. Maybe a little clouded, maybe a tiny trace of red, but nothing that would betray how swollen and puffy they still feel. Certainly nothing a casual glance would register.

But that's her problem right there: Tony's glances are rarely casual. And it's silly, really, because he already reached inside her heart tonight -- not to squeeze, not to inflict anguish, but to nudge very gently, quite contrary to everything he usually does. She still feels that touch. Feels it turn her upside down and inside out and rip her open, despite its featherweight, and by now she is completely helpless, bared, defenseless. The pressure of too many emotions leaves her anxious, fidgeting. Because this is the moment where she has to go inside and face him, and she's not yet ready for that. Her heart is still wide open, and she isn't afraid of him getting in any deeper -- that is hardly possible. She is, however, afraid that he'll see.

*** *** ***

It's Ducky who opens the door for her, and his warm smile is enough to shatter her tension. His hand is on her arm as he ushers her in, and despite the way she usually reacts to touch, tonight it calms her down. Her fidgeting heart stops running in circles, and she lays her hand over his and squeezes gently, just once. She doesn't have the words to go along with the act. Doesn't know how to say that she is thankful for him being there -- for all of them, really, their whole little family of people who do not function with anyone else, and for this evening that she gets to spend with them.

It turns out she doesn't need the words because Ducky understands her perfectly well. She can see it in his eyes, in the twinkle there while he asks her for her jacket.

With that jacket, she strips another level of anxiety away. At the same time, though, she feels like she is losing a piece of much-needed armor.

*** *** ***

She stumbles right into a heated discussion between Jimmy, Abby, and Tim, and she's confused when they try to make her the deciding factor since Palmer refuses to pick a side. It's hard to judge when she has no idea what they are talking about. Thankfully, just as she opens her mouth to pour out an excuse, Gibbs hollers her name from the kitchen, and she backs out, thankfully, with a sheepish smile on her face.

"They've been at it for half an hour," he grunts while he throws her a pair of brightly colored oven mitts. "Check the turkey." She stares at the floral print, blinks, and for a second she tries to imagine him buying those. Her mind refuses to assist, though, and so she shakes her head and gives up. Maybe they were a gift from Fornell.

He has opened a bottle of beer and hands it to her by the time she comes up again, and she takes it with a smile that ends up a tad more emotional than she had planned it. She finds that she is glad he's doing this -- that he's bringing them all together tonight. That he takes them in like lost puppies and gives them something to love and hold on to. Something true.

And that is when she finds herself grasping his arm and leaning into him and, for the first time since she met him eight years ago, she kisses his cheek to greet him. For a brief moment she feels deliriously grateful when he slings his arm halfway around her and hugs her. He's not used to doing this, but she accepts the vaguely awkward embrace nonetheless and revels in it until he laughs and says, "Glad you could make it."

She agrees and sips her beer, and that's when Tony rounds the corner of the kitchen. He stumbles over his question meant for Gibbs, much like her own heart skips a beat. He gets over it faster, though, with barely a breath between words before they appear quite normal again. She watches him curiously. For the first time she wonders how he, the open book, got so experienced in covering up the stronger emotions. And yes, suddenly she can't help but wonder what else he has hidden from her over the years.

*** *** ***

Dinner is much less formal than it was at Ducky's house, and that helps her to relax. The food is good and, of course, too much. The talk is loud and all over the place. She drinks too much, and she laughs too loud, but she doesn't care. It's all good, and it's family, and it smoothes over the gashes in her heart and covers up the feelings leaking out.

She still senses it every time Tony's gaze comes to rest on her. It happens quite often tonight, for some reason, and often enough, she meets his eyes while he stares at her thoughtfully. It always strums a certain cord inside her. It's a gentle note, despite the nervous little flutter it brings to her heart, and as the evening progresses, she feels that silent vibrato seep into her bones, her whole self. Feels it on her skin, even, up to the point where she is highly aware of Tony's presence even when he isn't looking at her for a change.

*** *** ***

She needs to step out not too long after that because she is suddenly not sure how much longer she can keep it together. How long she can keep from reaching out and touching him. Because even though she could blame it on being drunk and on the holiday spirit, curling up in her co-worker's arms is not an option. She's not sure she could keep her heart in check this time, and -- drunk or not -- she doesn't want to be reduced to a sobbing mess in front of her friends by just one single touch. She couldn't justify it. She'd have to explain, and she can't do that. She literally can't. She tries to find the reason for that confusion inside her, for that urge to fall apart and come back together again, but no matter how hard she looks, she doesn't understand.

*** *** ***

She shouldn't be surprised that it takes him barely longer than a thought to waltz into the kitchen, too. Judging by the uninterrupted chatter from the living room, his departure went as unnoticed as her own, and she's not sure what to think of that. Maybe they really didn't notice. Maybe, though, it's simply normal for them that where Ziva is, he will be, too.

And yes, she thinks while she turns to look at him in the dim light, it certainly feels normal to have him by her side. All the time, these days. Not just when she's drunk.

He gives her a nod while he takes two more bottles out of the fridge, and she watches him pop the caps with more of that strange, quiet tremble running through her. His smile when he hands her one of the bottles is crooked, like he's feeling just as unsettled as she does tonight. She's not sure why he would be, though. It was her heart he turned upside down, after all.

And yet, his eyes are fixed on her while she takes the bottle and her fingers close not just around the neck, but cover his fingers, too. She didn't plan that, and she has to concede that her aim may be a little off by now. Or that, maybe, her subconsciousness nudged her to do that -- to touch him. Because it's the brush of his skin on hers that suddenly seems a lot more important than the sweating neck of the bottle in her grasp. Because she can't bring herself to shift her grip and let go of him. Because, it seems, tonight is the one night where she suddenly loses every fight she ever put up and reaches out for the people whom she usually keeps at arm's length instead.

He doesn't move, even when the moment stretches between them. Doesn't pull his hand away, and she's not sure if that's because he's as drunk as she is or because... well. He just draws his brows together and asks quietly, "You okay?"

She hears the question, of course. Sees his lips form the words. Sees the expression in his eyes shift, tinted by the concern he usually hides from her, too. But somehow, she can't seem to find a fitting reply for him, not even a nod, because right now all she feels is the hand that brushes hers.

She remembers the weight of that hand on her shoulder, his fingers pressing down gently. She remembers being stunned by the sensation because that's not how they are, usually. The rare occasions where they touched in times of need... they were never like this. And yes, she thinks, and the thought hits her with overwhelming clarity: this was the one thing missing from this evening -- the physical bond, to even out the emotional one he drew so tight between them with his gift. She's never been one to accept this kind of thing easily, but tonight she can't seem to help it. Tonight many circumstances are different, and the weight of his hand on her shoulder seems to have stirred her need for more. Tonight she can't fight, and she can't go home without taking this one thing from him: the knowledge of how he will feel when she truly leans on him. All of him, all of his strength. Not just a finger brushing hers by accident or a quick touch to get her attention.

He's confused when she breathes out and lets go of the bottle. It gets worse when she steps close to him and does what she wanted to do all night, every time her eyes met his. His heart jumps hard against her chest, once, twice, but she ignores it because she can't think about rejection now. Not while she buries her face in his neck and drinks in his scent. She can tell he is surprised, by her arm around his waist and her hand curling tight into his shirt. By her warmth, too, and her breath against his neck. By the way she melts into him -- clings, even, because some part of her is afraid he will deny her this.

But he catches his confused stumble soon and falls back in step with her easily. Puts the bottle down and runs his hand up her back. His body reacts instinctively to hers before he's even aware of it -- turns, relaxes... adjusts posture, even, so she doesn't have to get on her toes. And it's weird, but the moment he relaxes against her is the same one where she feels the true strength underneath his frame: she falls, and he catches her, and that's all there is to it. Simple as that. She wonders why she never tried this before.

He waits for the span of a few endless heartbeats, waits for her to say something, or do something. She can't, though. Right now, she can neither go back nor further, because each of these directions would take more willpower than she possesses right now, and she's too weak to take another step. It's good like it is, right here, right now. Perfect, even, and she drinks in his strength greedily and revels in his arms around her. How they tighten a little when he breathes out with a sigh and turns his head into her neck, mirroring her. He suddenly relaxes into the embrace, too, and the last of the subtle tension drains out of him while he holds her. His arms, like a cloak, shelter her, hold her safe, and for a heartbeat she sways in his arms, much like she did when she heard the first few chords of Puccini, because it's too much, and too unexpected, and too... good. He catches her again, though, and just like that, he's there, and he's warm, and strong, and her heart is about to burst because she's not sure she ever felt this safe about someone who... isn't. At least for her heart.

At one point, she would have to step back and let go of him, and then things will turn awkward. She knows that. Right now, though, she feels like they could do this for hours and she wouldn't get tired of it. She could fall asleep in these arms. And right in this moment, when he rubs his cheek against hers, she is quite sure that he would let her. That, maybe, he needed this moment just as much as she did.

*** *** ***

And then she finds that she cannot let go of him, even though she tries. Tony doesn't mind, and so she is still busy burying her face in his neck and drinking in his warmth and his scent when Abby hops into the kitchen. For a heartbeat Ziva thinks, this is it -- the awkward moment, where they break apart and then later pretend it never happened and maybe find excuses to satisfy Abby's curiosity.

It isn't, though, because he never lets go and he never steps away from her. Doesn't even flinch, because he is -- much like her -- too caught up in what this has become.

And for some reason, Abby doesn't ask questions tonight. She just makes a soft sound of adoration deep in her throat -- the same one she gives helpless puppies and her adorable younger brother -- and then she seamlessly enters their embrace and wraps her arms around both of them at once. She squeezes a bit too hard, and the end of her pigtail pokes Ziva in the eye, but that doesn't matter right now because it's... good. It's yet another thing she needed tonight.

"I don't know what's going on," Abby states firmly and rubs her cheek against Tony's shoulder, "but I love you guys."

Ziva laughs and turns her head so her cheek is resting against Tony's chest and she can look at her friend's face, so close to hers because right now, they share a certain rock in both their lives. She wants to wriggle one arm free so she can include Abby in the hug, but it's still pressed against Tony's side. And maybe it's a good thing she still has to cling to him, because right in this very moment, he chuckles, and then he breathes out in a soft sigh and says, "I love you, too."

The purest of endearments, just as calm and sure as his arms are. And yet, she suddenly feels like her heart is freezing over. She's never been good with these words, and they, usually, leave her on the verge of flight. But then the naive part of her mind -- the one that doesn't have much experience with this kind of moment -- insists that he must have meant it in a general way. A way that encompasses both of his friends, maybe all of their family here, tonight, and that silent reassurance helps to keep the panic at bay.

Except that later, when they all trail back into the living room, his hand brushes hers, and when she doesn't pull away, he does it once more. And by the end of the night, he sits beside her on Gibbs's dinky couch, and she ends up with her head resting on his shoulder while she listens to a silly story he tells, even though she isn't drunk enough to use that as an excuse.

*** *** ***