Archive of Our Own ^beta

"I'm fighting for you, Ziva."

"I know."

The Israeli air is hot, stale, and stifling; the same stagnant breeze she remembers from four years prior. His impending departure claws at her chest in the same way, rips open the same barely healed hole.

Only this time there is no anger to mask it, no rage to fill it in. Instead she pulls him closer; presses her face into his neck and feels her heart constrict tightly. The olive leaves around them rustle softly, and he breathes a heavy sigh, hands smoothing down her back. She clenches the back of his shirt with trembling fists; wishes she could climb inside him and forget everything.

Forget Fate's endless vendetta against them.

The skin of his neck is soft and warm, and she inhales deeply, determined to memorize him with every sense. He smells of musk, mint, and Tony; everything she's ever wanted, and yet nothing she deserves. She swallows a sudden sob that threatens to escape and wills herself not to break down completely by running her fingers through his hair. The unfairness of it all washes through her, makes her bones ache.

This wasn't the way anything was supposed to happen.

She tells herself he'll be safe this way. That this is the only way. She echoes her words to him back through her mind,"we will be okay." But the reality is that those words are a bold lie told by an all too brave facade, and deep down she doesn't know how to leave him, yet she doesn't know any other way to keep him alive. Suddenly she's beginning to understand why he came halfway around the world once to drag her to safety, and why she's about to run half a world away to ensure his.

Fate had a cruel sense of irony.

His hands slide to her face, warm calloused palms that she wishes would never leave, and then he pulls away just enough to press his forehead against hers gently. Forcing her eyes open, she blinks slowly at his thoughtful green expression. His gaze searches hers and thumbs smooth across her cheeks as he studies her face, an internal war going on just behind his eyes; as though he's trying to make a decision, trying to find the right words to say.

"Ziva," he begins softly, voice thick but determined, "I…" but suddenly she's terrified of his next words, petrified that the forthcoming syllables will dissolve what little strength she has left to keep him at a distance, to keep him safe. So instead she does the only thing she can think of and presses her lips against his.

Some words are not made for goodbyes.

His hand burrows into her hair; her tongue begs entrance at his lips, hands tugging the front of his shirt, pulling him ever closer as he deepens the kiss. It's frenzied, drugged, and desperate; his lips move against hers in a way that makes her head spin and her chest ache with longing. She can't seem to get enough of him, and yet can't seem to savor him slowly enough—like trying to fit a lifetime of kisses into a the span of a single one.

And it will never be enough.

Almost on cue, a jeep horn blares in the distance, causing them to spring apart on a gasp of air. Her contact is here to escort him to the airfield, away from Israel and the danger she poses, yet all he does is tighten his grip on her waist while she clings to his shoulders. It's so much a like one of his movies that she suddenly laughs, a loud peel of laughter that makes him look at her at though she has lost her last shred of sanity. Maybe she has.

"We are just like that movie," she says after a moment, snapping her fingers at him excitedly; happy to have anything to focus on besides the searing pain in her chest, besides the way her heart is currently tearing apart in tiny shreds. "You know that one with Rick and Isla and the cafe…or was it a nightclub?"

His eyes sparkle at her in the brightening morning light, amusement tinted with sadness, "Casablanca," he states finally.

"Yes!" she beams at him, and it's infectious, his lips spreading into an easy grin in return. Oh how she would miss his smile, "Exactly, except I am the one making you get on the plane."

A morose chuckle escapes him, "Yeah, I suppose we are sweetcheeks."

The aching sadness fills the air again, thick and overwhelming. Her fingers grip harder at his body—at this rate she's bound to have left bruises—while his eyes seek to memorize hers. The sunlight flits softly across his skin, catching beautifully in the green of his eyes, bringing out the soft flecks of gold in his hair. Her mind struggles to accept that this is most likely the last time she will ever see him again—the possibility seems unreal, remote.

The jeep horn beeps again, more loudly this time, declaring the too real reality she has to find a way to now accept.

"You have to go," she manages over the sudden lump in her throat, willing her fingers to release their grasp on him, to let him go. Her eyes burn and her vision blurs, and she blinks rapidly against the sensation as he nods his head stiffly and swallows hard.

"I know," he chokes out. His hands softly encompass her face, and she meets his watery gaze as tears of her own slide quietly down her cheeks. His lips are warm, soft; overwhelming as they try to convey everything at once and yet not enough.

"Here's looking at you kid," he says with the same crooked smile she has memorized from eight years past; Tony until the very end.

And then he is gone, and suddenly she is alone in the olive trees with nothing but the steady lament of the leaves in the wind and the ghost of him upon her lips.

It takes her a full hour to remember how to move.

zTz

He doesn't know how he makes through the next 6 hours.

The world passes in a blur; his actions on autopilot as his mind struggles to leave the quiet of the olive grove—struggles to leave her.

Jeep. Drive. Airfield. Documents. Cargo Plane. Jumpseat. Mindless joking with the pilots. Take-Off. It's not until they touch-down to refuel that he even registers the passing of time, the scratchy feeling behind his eyes informing him that he's spent the entire flight staring at the same square foot section of cargo plane wall catatonically. The pilot's voice comes over the radio, telling him that he might want to grab some food and stretch his legs—they'll be here for at least a few hours—so he dutifully forces his body into motion and into the regional airport's only terminal. He nearly loses it in the middle of the jet bridge with he finally sees a sign welcoming him to where they've landed. Fate is a sadistic bitch, he decides.

Welcome to Berlin

It takes an almost violent surge of will power to continue walking after that. Locating the nearest airport restaurant, he throws himself into the nearest chair with a desolate force that makes the waitress approach his table with a stern scowl. He manages to order a sandwich and a scotch, and then succeeds in picking at the sandwich and throwing the liquor back in one gulp. There's a knot in his stomach that won't go away, and his hand is half-way raised to order another drink when he drops it back to the table with a soft thud; because even getting wasted feels pointless right now.

He isn't sure there is a point to anything anymore if he's honest.

With a heavy sigh, he drops his head to his hands, elbows digging painfully into the hard metal table. He welcomes the feeling, anything to cut through the numbness that's permeated his every thought and movement, anything to distract from the dull ache in his chest. A group of German teenagers wander by, chatting animatedly, and his mind ponders their conversation, wonders what they could possibly be that excited about. Ziva would've known. Ziva.

A searing pain radiates through him as he tries to breathe.

His mind offers up countless images of her. Her tear-blurred eyes beneath the olive branches; the way the sun glanced off her skin and hair as they tried to never let go, only to have fate tear them apart; the softness of her lips, the way her body fit against his as they tried desperately to make up for the lost time they'd never have; the way she felt in his arms the last time they danced in Berlin, the way it felt to wake up next to her for the last two mornings after every truth had come tumbling off their lips. The way she looked the first time he'd ever met her, hair pulled back in that purple scarf and a smirk upon her lips—how a part of him had known even then. The way she'd looked as he left her alone in that wretched olive grove, a movie quote his parting line—the last movie they'd ever watched together, laughing softly on his couch, jobless but content, before this whole death-bent terrorist nightmare began. The way she'd clung to him before she told him to leave her; the last glance of her he'd ever get.

Funny, how naive he had been to think once that the only way he'd leave her again was through death.

Rubbing his palms roughly against eyes, he wills himself to snap out of it. He had to figure out a way to move past this; he had duties, responsibilities, a terrorist to catch. A rush of air leaves him in realization, his hands fall from his face. Only there wasn't any duty—he still didn't have his job back; there wasn't any responsibility—he's pretty sure not even a goldfish awaits him at home anymore after he left to search for his partner in a rush of bags and tickets a few weeks back; there wasn't even a terrorist to catch—the trail had gone cold the minute Ziva had fled the country. There was nothing to do now but wait; wait to see if Ziva could run far and fast enough that their killer would slip up and create a new trail of evidence.

Wait to see if Fate would give him his life back.

A debilitating weight settles over him; numbness seeps into his muscles, despondency burrows into his bones. He stares blankly at the half eaten sandwich in front of him, despair pitting in his stomach, making him nauseous. He'd always been a man of action; someone who always had some plan or another going in the background, even if was just a vague notion. But now? What the hell was he supposed to do now? His mind searches, grasping at possibilities, but they all seem dulled notions of empty beds, lonely apartments, and desolate cases; paltry substitutes.

Because she always had been the plan before now.

Looking around the airport, he briefly considers what life would be like if he just decided to stay right here; be like Tom Hanks in The Terminal, live off the mediocre beer and bratwursts of Berlin's smallest airport. For a moment, it doesn't seem like such a bad idea; at least he might have a chance to see her if she ever came through this way. A melancholy chuckle escapes his lips as he digs out his wallet and drops what he thinks might be enough American bills on the table to cover the tab; of course, Ziva would kill him if she ever ran into him living like a bum in the middle of an airport; would tell him to stop sulking and go shave; crinkle her nose at him, mess up her idioms horribly. The ache in his chest intensifies with a sharp stab.

God, missing her was going to kill him slowly.

With a small groan, he wanders listlessly to the nearest empty terminal bench and sinks onto it heavily. Clearly someone else was going to have to do the planning for now; he was out of ideas. Pulling out his phone, he presses the familiar name on the screen; the one person who was never without a plan. LIfting the phone to his ear, he listens as the international dial tone clicks through.

"DiNozzo?" the gruff voice on the other end of the line sounds surprised, and Tony's brow furrows. Strange, Gibbs was bound to be many things when answering a phone call, angry, surly, grumpy, did he mention angry? Surprised usually wasn't one of them.

"Hey boss," he forces his voice into a chipper tone, "How's the weather?"

Gibbs' answering sigh tells him he's not buying a second of it, "Where are you Tony?"

He swallows hard, continues the charade. It's the only thing holding him together at this point. "Berlin; lovely this time of year you know."

"And Ziva?"

Damn, the man knew how to hit hard and fast. "Israel," he almost chokes on the word, "gotta work on her tan. Says D.C. was making her too pale."

"Anthony…," and yeah he gets it. Knows this has hit Gibbs hard too; ever since they realized that bringing her back now would be impossible.

Doesn't make him any less angry though.

"So I'm just wondering," he plows through whatever platitude their silver-haired leader had been about to expound, "what the next step of the plan is now?" His pulse beats erratic, and he feels maniacal, strung-out, belligerent. But hell at least it's feeling. "Cause you know, I found her like you said, and now I'm leaving her, like she said, and oh gosh darn, it looks like I left the rest of this fucked up playbook back at my newly bullet fung-shuied apartment!" A few people next to him shoot nervous glances.

"DiNozzo!" Gibbs' voice cuts through the phone, silencing his tirade. "Enough," and yeah, that's the only thing he's sure of anymore. That he's had enough.

Quiet settles over the line; both men lost in thought.

Finally, his stoic boss breaks the silence, "I'm not gonna tell you what to do, DiNozzo." Funny, that had never been the case before.

Gibbs continues, "but, you will be reinstated back in D.C. If that's what you want." What he wanted? He stifles a scream of frustration. Since when had it ever been about what he wanted?

All he had wanted was her for some time now.

He gives a doleful chuckle, "Isn't exactly a choice is it boss? That's what I'm supposed to do isn't it? Come home, go to work, catch the bad guys, chase everything with a skirt?"

All the things the world expects him to do.

Gibbs sighs heavily, "Ever think ya might stop doing everything just because of supposed to?"

"Nah," he replies sardonically, "Thought I'd follow them right down to the basement with my bourbon. Been meaning to ask you how to start on my boat by the way."

A derisive laugh answers him. "Thought I told you not to be like me DiNozzo." Suddenly that conversation seems like a lifetime ago; back when he still had possibility and a plan.

He gives a small huff, the joking facade crumbles, "Yeah well, got some cups that are lookin' pretty shattered right now boss."

The silence lingers between them for so long, that he's almost beginning to wonder if the call accidentally got disconnected when he hears Gibbs reply,

"Rule #75."

His forehead scrunches in thought as he searches his Gibbs rule inventory and comes up blank. " 'Fraid I don't know that one."

Gibbs' laugh is cryptic, "Pretty sure you already do." There's a brief pause, "Be your own man, DiNozzo."

And then the line really does go dead.

He stares blankly at the phone in front of him, attempting to process what had just happened. Leave it to Gibbs to be vague at a moment of crisis.

Pretty sure you already do.

That was just it; he knew nothing anymore. The only thing he had figured out was that he wanted her. Wanted to wake up next to her, wanted to love her, wanted to come home to her. Yet that was the one thing fate had taken away. The one route that had been burned to the ground. With a sudden hatred toward the world, he drags himself to his feet and begins to trudge toward the cargo plane area. Gibbs was wrong, there was no choice; there was only supposed to now, only orders to keep him going. He doesn't know why he's surprised really; the universe had never been very keen on keeping his promises to him. The entrance to the jet bridge looms nearer, and with every step he feels trepidation and anguish burrow deeper in his chest, twist his stomach with the agonizing feeling of one horribly lost and headed in the wrong direction again.

But then, every step away from her had always been wrong.

He stills at the edge of the jet bridge, takes a determined breath. This was it; back home to pick up the pieces and throw them away. He's done collecting fragile glass, and all trying to fit both cups together does is cause one to break. He takes a shaky step forward, feels the dread in his stomach grow. Deja vu smacks him square in the chest, an onslaught of memories. Come home with me, Ziva.His words to her echo in his mind. Suddenly everything clicks and makes perfect sense.

He thinks he's never gotten words more wrong.

Pivoting on his heel, he bounds back up the jet bridge with a renewed sense of urgency. He sees the choice now, the divergent paths spreading out before him clear and steady. One he's already been down before, four years prior; it involves getting on a plane without her; growing into old age bitter, broken, and with a scarred liver, hoping she would show up at his doorstep again; never knowing what happened to her; losing himself in the rage and agony if he ever realizes something did. Not that he's sure he'd even make it to that point this time. Four years ago, he'd had anger and misunderstanding to keep him going.

Four years ago, he hadn't yet tried to live without her.

With a skid, he exits the ramp and pauses in the central concourse of the terminal, eyes scanning the signs above him frantically. The other path is right there now, a shining small thread that he'd almost missed because he thought Fate had gotten between them again. It's a rocky, small possibility, with a sure drop off a cliff and into a terrorist's sniper range if they stumble, and pain and heartache are surely lurking in its shadows; but it's oh so beautifully filled with soft curls, chocolate brown-eyes, butchered idioms, andherfor as far as it will carry him. His eyes find the sign they were looking for,International Airport Transfer —-, and he takes off down the corridor. Screw Fate. He's had enough of being pushed around by the circumstance and obstacles between them.

This is the only path that feels right.

Pulling out his phone again, he pushes another name and waits for the answering voice as he bolts toward the shuttle bus under the transfers sign.

"Tony?" McGee's voice fills the line.

"Tim," he cuts in determined, slightly out of breath, "I need a flight.." Dying of old age was overrated anyway.

And he's finally coming home.

She can't bring herself to move locations just yet.

Once she finally makes it back to the small house she's been hiding out in, she stands around listlessly, willing herself to pack up and move out. The only way to keep them safe is for her to keep moving, keep on going and hope to flush this terrorist out of his hole. But she can't bring herself to pick up the bags, can't bring herself to wipe away the evidence of her stay and leave. Everything is still too raw, too fresh.

Everything still reminds her of him.

In a moment of weakness, she tells herself she'll leave first thing in the morning, that she can have twenty-four hours to mourn the shattered illusion. So she sits in the heavy silence of the living room, allows the memories to surround her. The hushed tones, whispered adorations. The perfect friction of his skin against hers, the way his lips where like her salvation and destruction all at once. The way it felt to wake up next to him in their little bubble of willful ignorance over the last days.

The way it felt to find happiness.

She takes to tidying the small space endlessly in an effort not to start crying. His presence is everywhere, and she rearranges and reorganizes in a determined battle against the tightness in her stomach, the empty hollow thud in her chest.

Because if the tears come, she doesn't know how she'll ever stop them.

Her quiet soft movements become harsh, forceful almost rage-filled precision as the day wears on. Her anger at the universe, at life, at herself manifests in the vehement way she scrubs at the countertops, the ruthless manner in which she straightens the throw on the back of the couch.

She tries to beat his memory by forced exhaustion.

Finally she tires, and wrapping herself up in sheets that still smell of him, she tries to will herself to sleep, to rest. Because tomorrow she has to move forward, move onward.

Move past happiness.

But the bed feels too big without him, and his scent in the pillows is no substitute for the feel of his arms around her, chest pressed against her back. Hours pass as she tosses, restless, a constant lump in the back of her throat and burning eyes pressed firmly shut. Funny how it took her so little time to get addicted to sleeping next to him.

The clock reads 3 am when she flings herself from the bed with an annoyed huff; irritated with herself, with her selfish need for him. Mentally berating herself, she begins to pack bags haphazardly, reasoning that if she can't sleep she might as well get ready to head out, to find a new place to hide, distract herself from the pain by formulating a detailed plan to lure this madman to face her. She throws clothing into a duffel and wrenches the zipper closed against the anguish pitted in her stomach. Her mind is frazzled, exhausted, and she doesn't even need to actively plan really; she's done this all before.

All she really needs is him.

With a frustrated groan she makes her way to the living room to gather her passports and a stack of currency. She had to stop being so childish now. Tony was safe; it had to be this way; she had to push forward alone, it was the way her world had always come around to in the end. Maybe in a different lifetime, fate would have been kinder.

Maybe in a different lifetime she wouldn't need to atone for so many sins.

A sudden pounding at the door, snaps her from her reverie and has her reaching for the Sig on the desk as she mentally flips through possible scenarios; none of them entailing anyone knocking at her door blatantly. She idly muses that perhaps her killer has suddenly developed a need for polite manners as she inches stealthily toward the door and glances through the small peephole there. The person standing on the other side makes her heart pound and her mind reel in disbelief, even as she drops the gun on the nearest table and throws open the door.

"Tony?…" and surely she's hallucinating right now because there he is in front of her not eighteen hours after he left, fierce and determined. Her throat closes up slightly, her heartbeat strays erratically.

She missed him more in eighteen hours than she cares to admit.

"Screw Casablanca," the words come out a low growl as he pushes past her and into the small living space. Stunned, she somehow manages to close the door behind him before turning to stare at him perplexedly, her mind unable to process his sudden reappearance in her life.

"What…" she stutters thickly, trying to follow the strange opening line. Perhaps she actually fell asleep and is only dreaming; she digs her fingernails into her palm hard, pain shoots up her right arm. He is real, alive, and standing in front of her again.

She doesn't know whether to be elated or terrified.

"I'm not running anymore Ziva," he's stepping forward to cup her face in his hands, thumbs rubbing reverently across her cheekbones, stealing her breath. She stares at him in wonder, frozen. "I'm staying right with you every step, until we either catch this bastard or get killed trying." His words cut through her, a beautiful disarray of her happiest dreams and most terrifying fears.

The ones who get too close always end up dead.

Reality snaps back into place as panic floods through her, "No," she chokes out, "No, Tony you cannot do this." With a hard shove to his chest she breaks free of his grasp, walking briskly toward the desk, grabbing the waiting cell phone there and flipping through the contacts, trying to find anyone she could call in a favor with at this hour. Anyone to drag her crazed partner to safety.

"Ziva, stop." the phone is out of her hands and lands with a small thud across the room, and she chides herself for not seeing that one coming. She stares up at him incredulously, furious stare meeting his resolved one.

"You're insane," she grits out, flinging her hands out exasperatedly, "Tony you cannot be serious!"

"No, insane was getting on that plane this morning," his voice grows insistant, more resolute; his brow furrowed, stubbornness set in his features. "This. This is the first thing that's felt right since this whole mess began."

"No, you have to go back Tony," she raises her voice to match his, brown eyes pleading reason with his, "there is your career to continue, your apartment, your life…"

He cuts her off with a impassioned shake of his head, "All pointless bullshit if you don't have anyone to share it with Ziva and you know it."

"Tony you have to go home!" she's shouting now.

"I am home!" His face is sincere, green eyes boring into her own with so much openness and love as she struggles to fathom his words. She wasn't someone to make a home in.

All she's ever been is a death warrant.

"You're an idiot," she spats grimly, spinning away from him and crossing the room to retrieve the discarded phone.

"So they tell me," he returns scathingly, following quickly after her and grabbing her arm, forcing her to turn and face him again. His voice lowers, his eyes steadfast,"But I'm not going to let you do this alone, Ziva."

You jeopardized your entire career, and for what?

For you.

She rips her hand from his grip, "So what Tony, you will die with me out here?," she feels hysterical, out of control, "Shot down by some crazy terrorist determined to execute me for my sins?" her mind conjures of up images of his blood on the dirt, on her hands, and suddenly she can't stand still without falling apart. "All because you will not listen to reason and go back to D.C? You have to leave me alone, Tony; all that follows me out here now is death."

So you will die with me.

"You already asked me that once, you know" his voice is softer now, head tilted sideways as he remembers. The memory takes all of the fight out of her, stops her pacing mid-step. He meets her terrified gaze determinedly, fiercely stepping toward her, grasping her shoulders with such a gentle certainty that it makes her gasp. His eyes are raw, and the emotion she finds there tells her soul his answer before the words leave his mouth.

Tony, why are you here?

"Yes, " his voice is so low she almost misses it; however, the unwavering set of his features leave her with no doubt, "Yes Ziva, I will die with you, if that's what it takes." His voice grows louder, firmer; more resolved, "And I will kill with you, steal with you, and fight with you. I will change names, and passports, and countries with you so many times it will make that DiCaprio movie, Catch Me If You Can, look simple," his grip on her shoulders tightens "I will run through every goddamn desert and jungle you want to lead me through, and I will do whatever it takes to make this ridiculous nightmare end and get us both back to DC,"

He takes a deep, steadying breath. Her eyes burn, a retort dies on her lips as he continues; his voice an urgent reverence, "But the one thing I will never do again is leave you. Tried that already. Couldn't do it."

Couldn't live without you, I guess.

Something inside her shatters and breaks.

With a strangled sob, she falls into him; tears roll down her cheeks as she lands against his chest, arms circling around his neck; her body shakes with another violent whimper, and she feels his arms wrap around her waist, taking the weight off of her useless legs; his lips press a soft kiss to her hair. And God, how she hates herself for this weakness; hates that he can make her feel so safe. Because she should be pushing him away right now, telling him no again; the solider inside her knows this. She should be doing anything and everything to push him out the door, back to safety, away from her, even breaking his heart if that's what it takes—she's done it before. But she can't bring herself to deliver anymore blows, can't bring herself to push him away with more force than reason; because she can't break his heart anymore with out breaking her own.

Because she can't live without him either.

Her tears subside after a moment and she stays wrapped around him, buries her face in his neck and breathes deeply, sending a pang of longing through her chest. She doesn't know where to go from here or how to make him safe. All she knows is she's so tired of fighting this, of needing him and keeping her distance.

Of trying to be so damn strong.

"You know I am more than capable of going on the run Ziva," his lips brush against her ear as he whispers fervent words, sending a shudder down her spine, "You know we're better together than apart," and yes a small part of her knows this is all irrational; that they will have more chance together in ending this; that the images terrorizing her mind are just that, images.

Yet she's never had so much to lose.

He places a gentle kiss below her ear before continuing, words that shatter her heart and mend in it in one, "You don't have to do this alone anymore, and I am not going anywhere."

At lo levad. You are not alone.

And those are the hardest words to accept; the hardest to learn. Because it means she has to give up some control to the universe, has to loosen her grip on the reigns and trust someone else to steer. It means she can't protect him all the time; means she has to give up this notion that by not loving him he will somehow stay safe, or at least not destroy her when he doesn't.

Because she's been in love with him for so long, and she's pretty sure his loss would destroy her either way.

"I can't lose you, Tony," her words are muffled against his skin, but the way he tenses slightly at the admission tells her he heard them.

"Seems like we've both got pretty damn good reasons to keep each other alive then." He pulls back slightly to meet her gaze, eyes rimmed red in a mirror of hers. She lets her forehead rest against his, unable to stop one last attempt to reason, once last attempt to push him to safety.

"I never asked you to take on my sins, Tony. I never wanted to bring you into all of this danger."

He eyes sparkle at her in response, a half-grin on his lips, as though he can't believe the universe hasn't yet let her in on this answer. His hands move to her face, "Sweetheart, I'm your partner; you never had a choice."

Out of everyone in the world who could have found me. It had to be you.

You should have left me alone.

Okay. Tried. Couldn't.

She understands in a rush of clarity.

The choice to protect him, to leave him unburdened and unharmed had always been an illusion, a fantasy—it had never been hers to begin with. The pieces click into place; Fate's grand pattern falls around them, exposed. She could run, try to shield him from herself, and he would always choose to follow. The only question now was whether to keep running, let destiny pick them off one by one, or to finally turn around and stop; to stand and fight; to love him. In the end, it's a much easier choice that she imagined.

And she is so very tired of running.

She nods against his hands, her thoughts suddenly crisp and clear, "We will have to move first thing in the morning. And you will need a jacket; Moscow is cold even at this time of year."

His mouth automatically opens to protest what he is sure is her rebuttal, and then her words catch up him. His smile takes her breath away, his eyes swirl with so many emotions she can't register them all.

She wonders why it took her so long to realize how easily he said I love you with his eyes.

He frowns now slightly, gaze suddenly probing, "You're not gonna run off in the middle of the night are you? Cause Ziva, I swear if you do…," but she silences him with her mouth, lips gentle but firm, attempting to reassure him without words—that's she's not going anywhere.

She's fighting for him.

"No," she says finally, breaking the kiss and sliding her hands to his face, fingertips smoothing affectionate lines against his skin. "No, Tony. I will not leave you."

Tried. Couldn't.

His answering grin is so wildly happy that she feels the tension and fear dissipate from her chest. None of this will be easy—he circles his arms around her waist and pulls her firmly against him—and they both could end up dead tomorrow; and god, she doesn't know how she is going to continue if he gets hurt or killed because of this. Shuddering softly at the thought, she buries her face in his chest; he is warm and alive, his heartbeat a steady thump against her ear. His forehead drops to her neck, lips pressing a light kiss to her skin with a gentle affection that only strengthens her resolve. Because god how she will fight for this now, how she will fight to keep him safe, to get get them home.

To have something permanent in spite of everything Fate throws at them.

After a moment he breaks the silence, lifting his head to place a soft kiss against her cheek that makes her chest warm. "Good," he pulls back to give her a sideways grin, eyes sparkling mischievously. She had missed his easy-going amusement these last weeks.

"Cause you know, I had McGee lo-jack you with one of those transponder things years ago, so you're not gonna really get that far."

Her indignant gasp and subsequent jab to his ribs are a reflex that makes him release a loud "Oof."

"Joking, ninja, joking" he wheezes dramatically, holding his hands up in surrender.

She laughs, the first carefree sound in months, and he cradles her smile with his hands. Her lips meet his.

He tastes like coming home.

Years later he figures out what the rule actually meant.

It's scrawled in the familiar chicken scratch of his taciturn boss; stuffed inside a little envelope that he hands to Tony with a wordless smile as he makes his way through the door. Arms full of four wooden frames.

"Where d'ya want this Ziver?"

Ziva gives him a warm smile, gently handing Tony the sleeping infant in her arms before reaching forward to grab the nearest frame from the silver-haired ex-Marine, leading him from the room.

"I think the crib should go right in here…"

He stuffs the note in his pocket, focuses on his dozing daughter; amazed at how she can sleep through so much noise undisturbed, at how her soft curls already resemble her mothers, at how many little details of him and Ziva he can already see in her—the calendar on the wall catches his attention.

At how much can happen in three short years.

It's not until later that night that he remembers it, leaning gently over his wife in order to retrieve the now slightly crumpled piece of paper from his jeans from the floor beside their bed. Beside him, Ziva lets out a soft snore and curls against his side; he gives a quiet chuckle, wraps an arm around her waist contentedly while unwrapping the note with the other.

Rule #75: Sometimes the only way forward is to go back.

Knew you'd figure it out eventually DiNozzo.

Grinning, he lays the note on the night table and turns to wrap himself around Ziva fully, vaguely wondering just how many rules Gibbs had written down throughout his house and if they'd ever learn them all. Pressing a soft kiss to his wife's forehead, he ponders the note again. Gibbs had been right that day; he had already known that rule; already known what he needed to do.

Already known that she had been his path all along.

Closing his eyes, he lays in the darkness; listens to the steady breathing of the woman beside him, the other steady little breaths coming through the baby monitor, and his chest constricts acutely in awareness. He sends a thankful prayer out to the universe, suddenly so grateful for the thousands of little moments that have lead them exactly to this place, right here; for the moments of perfect clarity granted in airport gateways.

He's never made a better decision. They've never fought harder to stay and live. He feels sleep begin to claim him; Ziva gives a gentle hum of contentment against his throat.

Maybe happiness was in Fate's cards for them after all.