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It wouldn’t have been so terrible, if it weren’t for the god-awful rocking of the boat.
Boat. Ship. Whatever. She was too sick to care.
“You know,” Tony said, voice laced with obnoxiousness, “Ziva, these Navy burgers ain’t half-bad-”
Nausea did a slow roll through her stomach and she bit back a groan as bitter acid stung her throat. “Shut up.”
“Extra cheese,” he continued through a mouthful of meat. “Delicious. You want one?”
He held out the greasy burger in her general direction. Even from five feet away, the smell of meat and cheese and pickles hit her like a brick wall. She dry heaved, but nothing came up. “Tony, I am going to shoot you-”
“Yeah, lucky for me, you couldn’t stomp a fly right now.” He shoveled in another bite of burger. “Damn, that flu’s really doing a number on you, huh?”
“Wait till you get it,” Ziva seethed. Sweat stuck her hair to the scratchy cotton pillowcase. The lower bunk of the ship was tiny, barely six inches between her head and the unforgiving iron of the upper bunk. She’d whacked her head thrice already, which hadn’t done much for her influenza migraine.
A weird death of a petty officer was what had dragged them out to this godforsaken place. Gibbs suspected murder, and Ducky had confirmed drowning as the cause - in the ship’s commercial dishwasher. McGee had squirmed his way out of a ship ride for once, leaving the case to Ziva and Tony, but a nasty flu storming the decks of the ship had thrown a wrench in the investigation. Ziva had lost the drawing straws for who had to interview an ailing skipper, and now she was feeling the full regrets of the loss.
“Oh, I won’t.” Tony took another massive chomp out of the burger. “DiNozzos don’t get sick, Ziva. I’ve never had the flu, not once in my life.”
“Why don’t I believe that?” Another low, stabbing cramp shot through her and she forced back another groan.
“Believe it or don’t, see if I care,” Tony replied, obviously caring. “You should go ahead and spew, you know. You’ll feel better.”
“I will not.” She cast an askance look at the metal pail Gibbs had thrown at her when she first came down with it anyway; it didn’t help.
“Won’t spew or won’t feel better?”
“Either. Both. I don’t know!” She threw her hands up in the air; her wrist smacked up against the bottom of the upper bunk and she yelped.
Tony smirked. “Graceful.”
“Shut up,” she said again, feebly.
“What, no comeback? Damn, Ziva, I thought better of you.” Tony shook his head in slow, mocking contempt. “It’s gonna happen eventually, you know.”
“No, it is not.” The way her stomach flipped said otherwise and she brought her hand briefly to her mouth, which also didn’t help.
“Mm…yeah, it is.” Tony’s eyes flicked up and down over her, scanning her in that creepy way he always looked at her, that piercing gaze that seemed to rip right through her. “Face it, Ziva, you’re greener than a leprechaun.”
She furrowed her brow at him. “I don’t know what that is.”
“Little green dudes from Ireland.” He shrugged, pushing the remnants of his burger away. “Point is, Ziva, you’re sick. You don’t have to pretend like you aren’t. Look, I know Gibbs said to keep an eye on you, but if you want me to step out for a minute, I’ll face the music-”
“It’s not that.” Her voice snapped like a frozen twig, sharper than she meant for it to, and Tony glanced up, his face softening slightly.
“It’s-” A fever-chill danced down her spine, and she shivered, huddling up tighter under her thin regulation cotton blanket. “Growing up Mossad, it’s not exactly like there’s much room for sick days.”
Tony nodded sagely. “Ah. Childhood trauma.”
“Shut up,” she said again. “I…when I was younger, spewing, as you call it, was the only sign of illness that could not be hidden, suppressed, put aside. And my father would not abide by that.”
She let her finger trail under the crest of her eye, a place that had been blackened many times before. Tony, to his credit, looked almost sorry.
Then her stomach clenched savagely and this time, there was no fighting it. She clapped her palm over her own mouth, groping frantically for the pail.
“Gotcha,” Tony said suddenly. He’d moved in a flash, kneeling at the side of her bunk. He brought the pail up, gently tugging her to the edge of the bed to protect her sheets. “Got you, Ziva.”
Navy rations tasted even worse the second time around. Something gentle brushed against her head, just barely grazing the tip of her ear - Tony was holding her hair back.
Finally, it was over. She spat something foul into the pail and turned her face away from it. Tony had promised she’d feel better, but the smell of it only made her sicker.
He grimaced, shuffling the pail a few feet away. “Hey, hey, not so bad, right? Better out than in. Here.” He reached behind him, snatching a water bottle off the table. “There you go. Swish and spit, that’s it.”
Ziva wrinkled her nose at him, but reluctantly took the water. “You are speaking to me as if I were a prized dog.”
“Just lookin’ after you.” Tony shrugged. “Gibbs would have my head if I let you shrivel up like a raisin, you know.”
“He would,” Ziva agreed. She didn’t push it.
The water rinsed the worst of the taste from her mouth, and she managed to swallow a few sips. As much as she hated to admit it, she did feel a little better. Her eyes were heavy, and the stiff mattress felt almost comfortable beneath her. “Go ahead,” Tony said, as if he could read her mind. “Knock out. It’ll get you better sooner. I’ll deal with-” He wrinkled his nose, jerking his head towards the pail. “That.”
“Tony,” Ziva started. “You don’t have to-”
“No, no, it’s cool. What kind of-” He hesitated, puffing out his chest like a proud cockerel. “ Senior field agent would I be if I got a little squeamish? Besides, Gibbs told me to keep an eye on you. He’ll keel haul me on the underside of this fine ship here if he catches me making you stagger down the hall to the head to scrub your own puke bucket.”
Ziva scrunched her nose up. “I still do not know what a keel haul is-”
“It hurts,” Tony promised. He hesitated, his eyes darting furtively back and forth along both sides of the hallway, and then, when he was apparently satisfied that he was safe from surveillance, leaned down and pressed a feather-light kiss to her cheek. “Now, Officer David, you get some sleep - I want you unconscious by the time I get back, you hear?”
His face was very red. Ziva elected not to mock him just yet. “Yes, sir. ”
Still rivaling the shade of a tomato, Tony grabbed the pail and strode out. His footsteps were more than a little clumsy - it was the first time she’d ever seen him truly flustered.
She curled up under the blanket and let her heavy eyes flutter closed. The place where his lips had met her skin was still warm when sleep came for her, and it had nothing to do with the fever.