Conservation of Momentum, a ncis fanfic

Disclaimer: I do not own NCIS.

Spoilers: Season 5, up to and including Recoil, to the point that it is nonsensical if you haven't seen Recoil. And I make no promises about the sensicalness even if you have seen the ep, which is now dubious, as I have been forced to coin a word that I have immediately dubbed 'dubious.'

Summary: Er…mostly Tony-centric Recoil missing scenes and filler, with some alternating Ziva. Semi Tiva-esque.

She missed him only for a moment. Gibbs was shouting and McGee was running and she couldn't hear him, because he would have been shouting and running and probably getting there first too, but he wasn't. He wasn't even there. The concern she saw in Gibbs' eyes made her grateful for that.

Tony tapped his foot impatiently as he stood in Hoffman's kitchen. He was periodically tempted to sit down, but then the dead girl displayed nonchalantly on a tarp in the living room would catch his eye and he'd be too creeped out by whatever might be on the furniture to want to touch anything without gloves, much less sit. Was this how Jardine felt all the time? Ugh.

His ringing phone came as welcome relief as he flipped it open. "Finally! You guys get him?"

McGee answered in a frantic whisper, "He's dead. He shot Ziva."

"Where?"

"Some kind of warehouse? Is that really important?"

McGee sounded panicked, setting off Tony's own internal alarms. "Ziva. Where is she wounded?"

"In the head!"

"WHAT?" He flinched back from a warm spray that felt much more present than memory. The fingertips he brought to his face encountered moisture. His hand was shaking when he looked at them. Clear. Sweat. Just his own sweat.

McGee was still talking. "She's alive, but he shot her and…"

Gibbs' voice suddenly carried over the line, "McGee, what the hell are you telling him?"

"You told me to…"

"Gimme the damn phone and start photographing." His voice became clearer as he sounded like he was wrestling the phone from McGee. Tony stood still, tense all over, waiting. The coppery flavor of blood was on his tongue. Fucking sense memory. "DiNozzo?"

"Yeah, boss?"

"Ziva's not bad. Bullet grazed the side of her head, but she's conscious and talking. Ducky's on his way."

He took a deep breath. Flesh wound. No spray, no blood in his mouth. His mouth?

Gibbs prompted, "Tony? You there?"

"Ducky's coming?"

"Yeah. He should be able to fix her."

He replied with the only question he could think of, "She's broken?"

"Just wait for us there, DiNozzo. We'll get there when we get there."

Tony listened to the faint buzz in the dead air for a long time before putting away his phone. It would take Ducky twenty minutes to get to the scene, another ten or so to take care of Ziva. Tony decided he would call in half an hour.

He tongued the source of the bloody taste in his mouth, a sensitive spot on his cheek that he'd bitten while on the phone.

She blinked, but the odd halos surrounding everything didn't disappear. She wished she could blame it on the painkillers, but she doubted optical effects were a side effect of aspirin. He hadn't tried to call. Whatever report he had gotten from Gibbs had been enough for him, she supposed. He would be back in the squad room soon. Another aspirin wouldn't hurt.

Tony tapped his fingers against the steering wheel, waiting for the light to change to green. He glanced at Ziva in the passenger seat and saw that her eyes were closed, head tilted back. She was absolutely silent and had been since they'd left NCIS. Maybe she was waiting for him to speak first. "So, am I supposed to keep you awake?"

"What?"

"I thought I read somewhere that you're supposed to keep someone with a concussion awake. Maybe I saw it in a movie." He jumped when a car horn beeped behind him and hit the accelerator. "You, uh…did the doctor at the hospital tell you anything like that?"

"No."

There was something strange in the way she'd answered, an odd inflection that meant she was coming just short of telling him an outright lie. "You didn't go to the hospital, did you?"

"I am fine."

"You got shot in the head!"

"You told me I did not look so bad." He kept his eyes on the road even though he could feel the stare finally leveled in his direction. It was missing its usual intensity. He risked a glance. Definitely lacking.

"Well, yeah, but I was comparing you to…" Dead. "…to, uh, what McGee was saying over the phone. He made it sound like you looked like something was really…"

"Here we are."

It took her longer than she felt it should have for her to realize that he hadn't asked her if she knew the bartender's romantic status. She had, in fact, met Heidi's girlfriend the third night of her undercover work at the bar. He would likely find that more interesting than 'single.'

Tony walked outside and took a few deep breaths. No concussion apparently. Feeling just fine. Places to go and guys to hit on. Gives me a scare like that and then decides she's just not gonna talk to me? Lies to me?

Ziva walked out slowly a few minutes later. "Anything?"

"Nope. You?" Get his number?

"The woman's first name is Julie, but I did not discover her last name."

He caught his hand halfway to the tress she was using to strategically cover her injury and stated, "Your head feels better, though."

"Yes. I think the painkillers have finally kicked out."

"In."

"But they have reduced the pain. It is out."

"It's not…" He gave up earlier than he normally would have. Reduced. He unlocked the car doors, waiting until she was in her seat but still had her door open to say, "Enough pain relief to let someone make you smile."

"Did you say something?"

"When do I ever say anything?" He grinned until she closed her eyes. She was asleep before they'd reached the first stoplight. He didn't wake her until he pulled up outside her apartment. Movies were full of shit. She woke up just fine.

"Why did you bring me home? My car is at NCIS."

"I'll pick you up tomorrow morning. We can grab some breakfast at this place I know that has the best omelets you've ever had."

She eyed him critically, but he again noted that the usual sting was missing. "Don't get up early. I will take the bus."

"Ziva, it's not a problem."

He was going to be angry with her, but the last thing she wanted was a pre-shrink pep talk. She found psychiatrists to be the least insightful people on the planet. She didn't want to talk to someone who would listen, analyze and file things away even when not compelled to do so. She lied and said that she felt guilty for taking a life, even in self-defense. The psychiatrist proudly told her that her reaction was perfectly normal, confirming her opinion of the profession. Wonderful start to the morning, probably indicative of a great day to come.

Ziva was sitting at her desk looking like death warmed over when he arrived at work the following morning after spending ten minutes knocking on her door, begging an empty apartment to open up. "Morning."

"Hello, Tony."

"Did you forget that I was gonna give you a ride this morning?"

"I told you I was taking the bus. It is not my fault if you chose not to listen."

"I…"

Great day. Just great.

She didn't want his pity. He had offered his friendship, his companionship, his ear, but she knew they came with an unspoken, unconscious caveat. And she didn't want his pity.

Tony drove around aimlessly for an hour before landing at one of his old haunts. The place had been remodeled into a more upscale establishment in the year since he'd been there – brighter, cleaner, with bigger televisions and younger clientele. The more things changed, the more they stayed the same. An autographed picture of Art Monk still occupied the position of honor over the now marble and chrome rear countertop. He'd never gotten a straight answer out of Rudy the bartender about whether Quiet Man had ever actually been in O'Hennessey's. Tony was surprised that even Rudy had been exchanged for a guy who probably opened beer bottles with his stiffly gelled hair.

"Why'd I stop coming here?" he muttered to himself as he tried to decide which of the many empty seats would offer the best entertainment. Not the one closest to the tipsy-looking underage blondes.

Jeanne hadn't liked sports bars.

He shook his head and found a seat that offered him a good view of all three NBA playoff games currently being played. If Ziva had come, he could be explaining the finer points of the triangle offense. He raised his hand and ordered a vodka martini. No. Just a beer. Guinness draught. He requested a fresh pint when the first sip tasted metallic, like her blood.

His blood.

No one's blood had splashed into his mouth today. Or yesterday. Had it really been two days since his current partner took a bullet to the head?

He finished three more beers before going home. He turned off his phone after the first one to prevent any uninhibited speed dialing. The metallic taste remained in his mouth.

She hadn't thought a stranger would know her as well as he did. Maybe she was just getting soft. It was still better than allowing him to see her display vulnerability. She saw him every day, but a stranger could be cast off. A stranger could disappear.

Tony was getting more worried as the days passed. Ziva was getting worse. And possibly not showering. She wouldn't let him get close enough to sniff her and he wasn't planning to try another playful tousle. She had a secret and he wanted it. Had she done this for months and months when he'd…?

He grinned suggestively and wiggled his eyebrows every time he looked at her.

He was not jealous.

She hated his teasing, she hated his singing, but she appreciated that he knew when to shut up. She would put up with him if all he wanted to ruin was their relationship. Friendship. Not relationship. Friendship was a type of relationship. He wouldn't want to think about definitions and she didn't plan to ask him.

Tony watched Ziva's reflection as she watched Gibbs interrogate Rosetti. She definitely looked worse. Haunted. And pale and dirty. What the hell was wrong with her?

Nobody knows this case better than me.

He turned his attention from the reflection to the person, holding back his instinct to comment on Ziva's knowing the case in a more Biblical sense.

Go to hell, Gibbs.

He hadn't wanted to hold back. He'd wanted to tell Gibbs exactly what Ziva was so angry about, but once she stopped being angry she'd just go back to being…fine. Fine. Angry was better for now.

She was a fixture there.

And guess who else was a fixture there. And who was becoming a fixture there. Maybe Gina. Gina was the female Tony DiNardo, so that made it okay. That had to make it okay. He looked away, turning his attention to a dust bunny on the floor. Didn't anyone vacuum Observation?

I wanted the scumbag dead.

He almost gave himself whiplash trying to look around fast enough to gauge her reaction. Her gaze remained fixed. He'd missed the emotion, if it had even been there. Angry had worked earlier.

He went after it again.

He kept saying boyfriend. Why did he keep insisting that a stranger had to be her boyfriend? And with that awful edge in his voice every time he said it. She wasn't sure how much longer she could hold off mentioning the fact that he had been a stranger to someone for months. If only she could remember the woman's name. Why couldn't she remember the woman's name?

Tony cradled Ziva's SIG as he rode the elevator down to the evidence garage. No way he was letting anyone take over the chain of evidence on this baby. He smiled. Ziva was gonna be keeping all her fingers. It was a real shame she'd let herself get emotionally involved, but hey – you don't fall in love with them.

Where had he heard that?

He decided that she looked even worse today because she knew he was right and refused to admit it. He was almost sad to see her bluff with her weapon. Almost.

Not long afterwards, he stood in the lab, waiting for the damn print to match. The fingers were a little distracting, as was the fact that she had gone off somewhere and wasn't answering her phone. Did she not notice the little thing ringing in her pocket? Was it such a fucking chore to answer the phone? The fingers were starting to freak him out.

Four fingers. It was gonna stay four fingers.

Why had he taken her SIG?

And then even he could tell that the giant prints displayed on Abby's monitors weren't the same. And he was pissed. Why should he have to apologize for trying to watch out for her? And why did he have to call her? So he could apologize right away?

He yanked his phone out of his pocket and retreated to the relative privacy of the ballistics lab. He wanted to dial from memory, but found that he was so used to pressing '1' and 'send' that he couldn't do it. She was angry again when she answered. He didn't want to tell her the bad news, so…

The good news.

She was gonna keep all her fingers. "You got lucky." He suffered through her guess that the prints hadn't matched. "Don't sound so smug. McGee agreed with me." He let her get her snappy reply out, but she hung up on him before hearing his very intelligent conclusion, "This doesn't mean he didn't kill his girlfriend."

He didn't like the face looking back at him from the mirror as he stopped in the bathroom before heading back upstairs to the squad room.

She opened her eyes and, for the first time in days, found that her head was clear. When she arrived at work, he walked up to her and handed her a coffee and a piece of paper. He'd found Devon.

Tony watched Ziva carefully all day. She looked like a different person. Or the same person. The different one had been sitting there for the past few days. He liked having Ziva back, even if she was only being professionally cordial. She hadn't thrown the coffee he'd brought her that morning in his face, so that was good.

He glanced at his watch before starting with an open-ended question, "Got any plans for tonight?"

"No."

"But you're definitely feeling better?"

"I am fine."

"You've been saying that a lot lately."

"Okay." She rolled her eyes while a smile tugged up the corners of her mouth just slightly. "I am feeling much better than I have been. Is that better?"

"Yes. I'm glad you're feeling better." He stood and walked across the aisle, leaning over her desk to ask in a much quieter voice, "Are we okay?"

"We are fine."

"There's that word again."

"Tony…"

"Ziva, I'm trying to…"

"You owe me a drink."

"Oh." He stood in front of her desk until she put on her coat and picked up her backpack. "Oh, you're serious?"

"Yes. But I have to make a quick stop."

When they arrived at the stupid bar that had caused so much trouble over the past few days, he grabbed her hand before she could get out. "I wanted him to be guilty. I'm sorry."

She regarded him seriously before saying, "It was never about you. I have not wanted a friend over the past few days." She pulled free from his grasp and got out, but then leaned back into the car. "Now I do."

He was sure he hadn't started grinning like an idiot until she'd slammed the door. Pretty sure.

She smiled as she watched Michael through the plate glass of the door. Devon must have answered to make him smile like that. A hand on her back prompted her to turn. Slowly. She knew his touch. "All set?"

"Yes. Where are we going?"

"Y'know, I'm hungry. I'm thinking we might not want to have a drink on an empty stomach. Want steak?"

"Sounds good."

He opened the door for her when they arrived at the car. "And Ziva?"

"Hm?"

"I'm glad you're feeling well enough to put on make-up again."

He smiled when her fist made light contact with his arm.