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The church's side doors open in a swift move, so quickly that Tony bumps into Ziva’s back, wondering just how strong she is to nearly break a ten-foot solid wooden door.
“Are you kidding me?” she asks, her voice sounding stranded.
They’re in the middle of Europe. Tony can’t explain how exactly, but a couple of days prior, they found themselves on the run. Chased by a whole lot of people. Particularly, by a group of six individuals armed to their teeth who he’s just about sure are from the British intelligence, judging by their serious expressions and multiple weapons. And their badges. Something about their spot-on aim also constantly sends shivers down his spine.
Good thing his partner was also a high-skilled assassin in some of her past life.
“What?” he asks her, huffing out a cold laugh. “Would you prefer it was a funeral?”
“I am much more familiar with it.”
“How morbid.”
Tony surveys the gathering inside of the church—a couple dressed all in white in the front. Pale yellow flowers cascading down the altar. A middle-aged priest who’d just stopped in the middle of his sentence.
Some of the audience members stare at them. Perhaps because Ziva almost took one of the doors out of its hinges.
Perhaps because they just barged in on a wedding ceremony.
Taking her by the hand, he needs to think fast and merely starts walking, moving between aisles as if they were lost and didn’t know their seats.
“Tony,” Ziva snaps. “What are you doing? We have no right to be here—”
“Hi! You must be Claudette,” Tony exclaims at an old lady sitting close to them. He’d never seen her in his life. “Is this the groom’s side? Sorry for the delay.” Pulling Ziva behind him, Tony knows he’s being an ass by trying to find a seating spot where there aren’t any, but he forces the people in the aisle to move anyway. “The pineapple sculptures outside completely entranced us,” he marvels. “And the swans! Kissing! In a water fountain! How did they do that?” he asks excitedly. “Excuse us.”
"Please stop using my name for clout, boss.”
The voice of his chief technical officer sounds muffled in his earpiece and Tony can almost see her scowling, typing away on her keyboard so fast even McGee would be impressed.
“Well, you’re in my ear,” he whispers to the real Claudette. “Might as well be inside my brain. And we don’t really have time to not improvise, do we?” They didn’t. There’s a reason they had burst into a church, of all places.
Claudette is stationed in France, back in their security company’s base located on the outskirts of Paris. Meanwhile, Tali is with her nanny, Miss Robinson, in an undisclosed location Tony can only hope is safe enough. Ziva wanted her to come with them but… it would be too dangerous. And Tony knew, in some way or another, that their daughter would be used as leverage against them eventually.
And as much as they were trained for it, it was better to be killed on the run than to not ensure her safety.
“Can you see them?” asks Tony, having finally found a spot to sit down. He pulls Ziva down with him, despite her clear protests. Their thighs get pressed together and they’re wearing nowhere near the right attirement. They exchange a look, her charged eyes sending him silent daggers.
“Yes,” says Claudette. “Upper right-hand corner of the church, next to the pulpit.”
Perhaps not so discreetly, Tony glances at the other side of the nave, finding a couple of men he recognizes are from their wild chase which brought them to the church’s steps.
“Oh,” Tony lets out as his trust in winning ebbs by the minute. “You mean the two giant men wearing black from head to toe?”
Even from a distance, Tony knows they’re a whole head taller than him. And two of them. He gulps. At least they’d managed to throw the rest of the group off course, somehow. Somewhere back in the dark alleyways of the city center.
“Was that a rhetorical question?” asks Claudette, a slight edge in her voice.
“We need to know more,” is Ziva who answers. She also has access to the young chief’s intel. “I can see four exits.” And Tony realizes she’s right. He’s impressed, but not surprised. There are four clear exits from where they’re seated—one behind the altar, an open archway leading to the mountains, two on each side of the church, and one in the back, the main entryway, filled with guests. “Do we know who they are?” asks Ziva. “Is there a car outside? Are they armed?”
“Let me check it, ma’am.”
Tony scoffs, saying, “Why would they be armed, Ziva?” Being nervous makes him sarcastic. And he’s getting pretty nervous right now. “This is a wedding. A place for fresh flowers and love declarations.”
Tony winces as her hand squeezes his knee, suddenly painful. He looks at her to complain about it but she simply sends him a lip-tight smile, faking sweetness.
“So why do you not take a bouquet out of your—”
“Hey!” Tony interrupts.
“—and shove it in their faces, yes?” Ziva almost barks. Some of the guests turn to her with reprimanding expressions. He understands her well enough to know that is her manner of responding to the task at hand—they both know this a risky situation, one that they were avoiding.
It’s too big a crowd for this to end up well, especially if they’re armed. And, as he sees one of the men scanning the aisles with a hand resting on his belt, Tony is now certain that they are.
“Hey-hey-hey,” he tones his voice down, trying to calm her. Freeing his knee from her clutches, Tony first sends her a look before continuing, “The Godfather. 1972. Opening scene.”
And Ziva almost skins him out alive. “We do not have time for this, Tony,” she snaps.
“Well, not really the opening scene.” He tries to remember it correctly. “That would be Don Corleone talking to Bonasera—”
“Sit still. Stop talking. Now.”
“I mean the wedding scene,” he adds hastily. “The whole Corleone family is dancing and enjoying themselves together while we all know about the crimes going on behind the curtains.” Tony angles his chin toward the altar. “Is there a chance for the bride or the groom to be involved?”
“I vow to love you forever,” the bride mutters from the altar. It’s clear from her trembling voice that she’s been crying. “Even if our final day comes in a hundred years. When your hair is completely gray and I have wrinkles around my eyes.” She smiles, pausing to gather her breath. “When we’re both old and I cannot remember my own name, I will remember the joy we had and how much I have loved you. A hundred years from now.”
“Gonna take a wild guess here and say they don’t know that two bad guys just invaded their wedding,” says Tony.
Ziva chuckles. He’s startled by the sound for some reason. Tony couldn’t remember the last time she did that.
“Are you talking about us?” she asks.
And he meets her eyes, sparkling at the joke. Yes. Technically, they were the ones on the run. Taken aback by it, he can only add, “I mean…” Tony cracks a smile. “I can be bad if you want me to—”
“Boss.” The urgency in Claudette’s voice takes them back to reality. “They’re searching the crowd.”
And Tony’s mind speeds a thousand miles per minute.
“Act like you’re moved by it,” he blurts out.
“What?” asks Ziva, confused.
“It’s their vows. We’re at their wedding. We need to blend in.” His heart is racing while he tries to think. Tony doesn’t dare to look at his British companions to know where they’re heading. He stares straight ahead and bickers under his breath, “I know it’s hard, David, but just pretend you feel something.”
“I didn’t like you at first,” continues the bride. She’s laughing through the tears, now. “You were a complete womanizer. I mean, can we truly blame you? Your whole personality resides in joking about everything, pouring out your charm to strangers. You lead your life in your own way.”
Tony stops, listening to her. He can feel his heart racing. He isn’t sure if it’s because of the gunmen entirely. Ziva takes his hand and squeezes, perhaps out of anxiety, he can’t be sure. Her palm is sweating. But she seems calm. Paying attention to what’s happening at the altar.
“Besides, you hadn’t met me yet,” says the bride. The guests all chuckle.
“That’s true,” replies the groom. “ You were the key I needed to reason.”
“If you mean following me to the ends of Earth reason.”
And it hits too close to home.
Tony sends Ziva a side glance, finding her doing the very same. Quickly, he averts his eyes again, cleaning his throat and staring straight ahead. She releases his hand, also in a rush. In secret - because he would never give her that one freely - Tony admits to himself he misses the contact immediately.
“I vow to protect you in every way that I can,” continues the bride, between the tears. “I vow to be at your side until the very end, running and jumping through the many obstacles of life. I vow to keep our future children safe and loved, purely and entirely. I vow to return to you, every day of my foolish, meaningless life because you are the one that brings it meaning,” she says. “You are the reason I vow to keep living. And even through the many fights, the endless bickering, I vow to love you forever. I will be at your side, waving the white flag, until the ship sinks and we have no other choice. You’re stuck with me, sweetheart.”
And his heartbeat is too loud, ringing in his ears. His hands feel clammy. He’s almost sure he heard a quiet sniff coming from Ziva’s direction.
“Y’know what?” says Claudette with a chuckle. “This sounds vaguely familiar.”
“No, it does not,” replies Ziva instantly.
“I don’t see how,” Tony says at the same time.
Moved with emotion, the groom takes the bride’s face in his hands and kisses her, the whole crowd erupting in loud claps and cheers. The bells start to chime, echoing inside the open space, and the sound is so loud Tony nearly misses when one of their armed companions screams, ‘There!’, the word muffled by the wide sea of people.
Nearly. He nearly misses.
Running can be pretty challenging inside a crowded church. But as Tony and Ziva dart for the closest exit, the one behind the altar, it’s almost as if they’re getting the hang of it.
The hiss of a bullet passes just next to his right ear and Tony ducks, taking the priest with him.
Then, all hell breaks loose.
Panic-stricken screams echo across the aisles. Ziva speaks in a foreign language, trying to calm everyone down and lead them outside. Some of the guests stay in their places, paralyzed with fear. Some try to run away, blocking the narrowest exits.
The priest stares at him with terrified eyes, the white of them so evident, and Tony’s almost sure he’s from the bride’s side—the one that only speaks Italian. He tries to remember something from his forgotten mother tongue but fails. As the man starts to pray, though, he leaves him to it, grabbing Ziva’s hand instead. She’s still trying to find the armed men but somehow he’s faster than her.
Taking his gun out of his shoulder holster, another shot echoes inside the old cathedral, this time coming from Tony’s pistol.
This time, though, it meets its target. As the man falls to the marble floor, his partner’s face contorts with rage. Tony doesn’t have time to analyze it too closely before the man is already pointing the gun at him again, firing it twice. As he zigzags through the crowd, though, Tony sees that both shots miss, hitting pillars instead.
More screams. People hesitate if following them outside is the smartest choice. Ziva curses stuff he doesn’t understand but he’s pretty sure it’s cursing. Then, as they meet the final steps that will be leading them outside, a louder, different bell starts to chime.
And, as Tony and Ziva run hand-in-hand to meet the open, blue sky, a happy and completely oblivious group of guests throw rice over their heads, probably thinking that they were the newly-led couple exiting the back of the church instead.
Tony spits the rice out of his mouth. Doves are released all around. The old lady he talked to earlier to get to their seats somehow finds them again on the stairs and starts to scream at him in Italian. She hits him in the face, using her whole open palm. It stings immediately, throwing him out of balance.
Another hiss of a bullet.
And an answering sharp sound of a knife being thrown in the air, followed by a clamor and a dull thud.
Tony doesn’t even have to look over his shoulder to know Ziva’s aim met the bull’s eye. Under the bright midday sun, they are already running again, silently making their way through the foreign uproar.
Chaos spreads all around and, as he is almost losing his breath by leaving so quickly, Tony glimpses at what he can only define as an oasis.
At the front steps leading to the church, a two-door saloon car is parked, its doors open as if its occupants left in a hurry and… the engine still humming loud and clear.
“They have a Rolls Royce,” he says out of breath, feeling downright betrayed. Tony rubs the cheek that had been hit, his skin still tingling.
Ziva sees him circling the car and snaps, “Are you seriously stopping because of a car?”
“I worked for twenty years in NCIS and they didn’t even grant me an SUV.”
“Well,” she says, checking the trunk first and then over her shoulder. The wedding had been dismantled and people were still scattering back to safety, but at least, they saw no active danger. “You are not Bond, yes?”
Tony is trying to breathe properly—his hands propped on his knees as he bends over himself—but still, he manages to bite back, puffing between the words, “A movie reference? From you? How did you beat me to it—”
“It is a hard one to miss,” Ziva cuts him short. “They are all so dashing. Plus, you babble about it all the time.” She walks back toward the car doors.
He sprints before her, knowing that if he truly enjoys breathing, he needs to get to the driver’s seat first.
“David. Give me the keys—” orders Tony, throwing himself inside.
Just to find Ziva grinning from ear to ear, her hands already resting on the steering wheel.
Damn it. He forgot this was a British car.
Tony’s hands hover over nothing. He’s in the wrong seat.
“Oh.” She kisses her fingers, marveling, “Yes.”
The seats are clothed in fine black leather. The dashboard and door panels are finished in wood veneer. The car’s interior is elegant and customized with exotic materials and Tony deflates in disappointment that he isn’t the one driving it.
There’s an extra pistol inside the glove compartment. A stash of documents tells them they indeed came from Britain. Tony’s so distracted by the sheer beauty of the car that he nearly misses when the screams get loud again, but something about Ziva shutting her door so quickly and shoving the key into the ignition pulls him back to reality.
Through the rearview mirror, Tony spots a group of four people, zigzagging through the crowd from the other side of the church to get to them. It looks like the rest of the group who chased them in the city just caught up.
He’s trying to count how many weapons there are when the car tires screech on gravel, the air leaving his lungs as they speed to leave.
“We might have a funeral after all.” Tony puts his seatbelt on and tries his best to stay in his seat.
“Theirs?” asks Ziva, glancing at the group.
He shrieks when Ziva makes a sharp turn.
“Mine,” says Tony in a strangled cry.
The car speeds across the gravel, making the remaining guests cry out as it madly makes its way from the church toward the…
Toward the circle of bricks in the middle of the plaza, surrounded by shocked onlookers and water sprinklers.
To his horror, Ziva simply steps on the accelerator, making such a wild turn that the belly of the car scrapes against one of the swan statues, breaking its ceramic wing.
Water spills freely out, taking a few of the armed guys down with it.
“So,” Ziva says, sounding almost too calm for his liking. “They did have a water fountain.”
As they make their way to the open gates at the end of the road, Tony looks back at the broken fountain. Apart from being chased for a myriad of reasons, they can now add damage to public property to their extensive list of crimes.
“Did is the right word.”
The group of armed guards put down their weapons once they get far enough, the powerful car getting them miles ahead. Tony thinks he can finally breathe again, but only does so without any guilt once they hit the road, dirt substituting gravel and a long corridor of cypress trees framing their path.
The sun hangs high in the Tuscan sky, cloudless blue spreading as far as his eye can see.
Tony releases the handle he was holding so tightly and opens the car window, stretching out his neck.
Nothing behind them.
And nothing but beautiful hills in front of them.
He bursts out a cackle toward the sky.
Glancing at Ziva, he sees that a smile is also dancing at the corner of her mouth. She looks ecstatic.
He feels elated.
“Did you listen to their vows?” Tony asks, laughing almost hysterically. He doesn’t even know why he entered the topic, but he continues adding fuel to the fire. “I mean, ‘jumping through the obstacles of life’? Will they even recognize them when they come their way?”
“Yes,” answers Ziva, now also laughing. She’s still driving, although without much haste now. “And the future children part?” Another unhinged burst of laughter. “Imagine if they have a child they do not plan. Things would go differently, yes?”
Tears are streaming from Tony’s eyes. It may be just because of the adrenaline or something else entirely.
“Who would be crazy enough to follow their partner to the ends of the Earth like that?” he asks. “And without any explanation, to a whole different country. In the middle of nowhere.” He wipes his cheeks, saying, “Talk about having some self-preservation, right?”
He looks straight ahead, trying to piece together where they are heading exactly.
“Where are we again?” Tony asks.
A pause. “Somewhere in Italy,” Ziva replies. “The countryside. I do not know. You just started running.”
He stares at her, dumbfounded.
His heart skips a beat and he realizes—
Oh.
Oh.
“And you didn’t think to pull up a map?” Tony argues. Trying to ignore the heat that’s creeping up his neck.
“You were running like a cat out of hell,” Ziva bickers back.
She doesn’t slow down at a curve. Tony feels a wave of nausea, suddenly.
“I believe the term is bat, Ziva.” He covers his mouth. “There are no cats in hell.”
“But are there any bats?”
“Could you please stop the car? I’m in no rush to find out.”
She halts, stepping perhaps too forcely into the breaks.
Tony opens the door just in time to hurl his insides out onto the road, the contents meeting the green grassy floor. He comes back to find Ziva dangling the keys close to his face and, after a minute trying to get himself together, he trades spots with her, sitting behind the steering wheel.
He doesn’t even have the time to enjoy the ride. They’re already on the run again.
They travel down the country road right into the night, evening falling slowly in the summertime at a much later hour. There are no signs that they’re being chased now. Tony opens the car windows and lets the breeze ventilate them, the fresh countryside air flowing against his cheek.
He looks at Ziva, who’s facing the passenger window, her elbow propped over the frame. Her hair is unbound, cascading down her purple shirt. The breeze ruffles her hair, the curls she abandoned reappearing with the heat. She clutches her necklace, a cousin to the Star of David their daughter is wearing back home.
And it looks almost dreamy.
And if he closes his eyes, Tony can almost see it—
The wedding vows pop into his head again. He knows they were there before for a reason. Treacherously and almost ironically, Tony agrees with every word spoken. It feels like a strange sign - which he adds to the long list of signs that pointed at Ziva in the last two days - to hear such words at this time in his life, after he reunited with his long-lost partner and had no choice but to spend twenty-four hour days alongside her.
Tony looks at Ziva, knowing everything is true.
“Tell her,” she says.
It startles him. “What?”
Ziva sighs. “The coordinates,” she says. “Or else, we will get lost again.”
She means Claudette. She doesn’t mean herself.
She can’t read minds, you fool.
“Oh.” Tony nods slowly. “Yeah. Thought you meant something else for a second.”
And she turns to him, facing him fully. He can feel she’s staring but decides not to meet her eye.
Tony doesn’t know what would happen if he chose to do that instead.
“What?” asks Ziva. Softly. Almost too quietly.
Losing some internal fight, Tony finally glances at her.
And despite all the action in the afternoon, Ziva still looks so beautiful.
“You have rice in your hair,” he says instead. Cursing himself for it.
“I did not notice.” She takes it out and clears her throat. “We need to keep moving.”
“Yeah,” he replies. “Let’s go.”
Under the Italian sky, the evening stretches.
And Tony is almost sure he saw that in the movies once, too.