Work Text:
Bashes on wood drag him from a welcomed dream that like watercolors, blurred into an alternate ending that leaves his heart content. He wakes; an empty bed, accentuating it was a delusion.
The banging continues and he’s back to a lonely reality. Heavy hearted, he walks to the door.
A peek through the peephole and he hesitates. A deep breath and he opens the door,
"Hello, Tony."
The words grip reality and haul him into a creative world.
A vaulting gasp that carries forth four emotions; anger: that she left him; relief and delight: that she’s here; dread: that she’s not here to stay.
Suddenly, all words, heavy. His heart, pounding and his ears, ringing. A clog, settling in his throat and closing the voice box.
Speak Tony, his voice cracks; just as his heart had done months ago. The memories of Israel slinky into his mind, snaking forth the video of his life the last few months.
“Are you really here?” A twisted game; figment of his imagination, a creation of his dream? He blinks, she remains.
A quiet nod and a tender smile her answer.
Speak Tony, he echoes. “Come in,” he motions.
She passes, two strangers in the night and a chill that haunts. He closes the door, ending a chapter.
“Your letter,” the crisp paper coming to sit between her hands, words never meant to be read. “Did you mean it?”
He takes a breath, the pieces of tape holding his heart together slipping. The glue, her.
“All of it, Ziva,” her name whispered, stinging his lungs. “I…” he gulps down his cocktail of pride, fear and hurt. I love you, the words he can’t bring himself to say to her. His heart too open, an easy target. “I missed you,” he chooses instead.
Tension embraces them, words now their weapon, emphasizing how out-of-sync they are; two left feet in a waltz. The harmony of these two souls now different melodies.
Her fingers, pretzels, intertwining. “I missed you too,” she says. Doesn’t seem like it, he thinks. Radio silence for months on end.
Rain. Thunder. Lighting. Ingredients to a brewing storm. “Why are you here?” The lightning bolt is thrown.
“Tony,” she placates. His simmering doubt bubbling. “I’m,” sorry, he finishes. The apology his wounded heart craves. Instead, the unexpected word, “pregnant.”
…
After the initial shock, the questioning gaze, and the disbelief, the storm withdraws: the sky clears, the sun shines and the birds sing. The caterpillar emerges from its cocoon a beautiful butterfly.
“I’m sorry, for everything,” he hears, and his heart is finally on the mend. The first piece, glued.
The brutal truth still needed to be voiced. This pair, fragile at its core, would need time to heal their raw wounds.