Disclaimer: Don't own a thing.
This is set at least after Tony's whole thing with Jeanne and Ziva is still hurt by it. Jenny's still around as the Director. This is going to be very Ziva-centric.
The night was lonely for Ziva; a Friday, with Tony on one of his dates with a new blonde bimbo, Tim and Abby going to the movies, and Gibbs probably drinking a bottle of bourbon while working on his boat. Ziva's decision to visit one of the bars near her apartment was spurred partly from boredom and partly because a comment from Tony regarding her lack of a social life had stung. So she found herself wandering into the Dublin House Bar in the early evening and wandering out again several hours and drinks later, on the arm of a tall, dark-haired man.
Saturday morning found Ziva squinting in the early-morning sun and alone in her bed. Not that she had expected her one-night stand to stick around, it might have been nice to at least get his name. She glanced at the clock on her nightstand: 7:07 am. She never slept in past 5 am. Based on that, the pounding in her head, and the nausea she felt rolling in her stomach, she must have had quite a lot to drink the previous night. This was quite out of character for her and she was thankful that at least it was Saturday, so Tony would not see her like this, as she curled up into the fetal position and shut her eyes. The thought did not last long, when her phone started vibrating. She groaned when she read the caller-ID: Gibbs. Sitting up slightly, she tried to put some composure into her voice.
"David."
"Ziva, where the hell have you been?" Gibb's gruff voice sounded over the line. "Gear up, we've got a dead Navy officer in Rock Creek Park. Tony and McGee are already on their way to pick you up."
Ziva sighed. This was not how she wanted to spend the rest of her Saturday morning, not when she felt as terrible as she did now. But dutifully she replied, "Yes, Gibbs."
By the time Tony and McGee arrived twenty minutes later, Ziva had showered, changed, and tried to eat breakfast, only to have it make a reappearance a few minutes later. Despite her best efforts, Ziva could not hide her haggard appearance and blood-shot eyes, as she opened the back door of the Charger Tony was driving.
Tony was his usual self that morning. "Damn, Ziva, you look like crap."
"How very observant of you, Tony." Ziva sat in the back and buckled in, while giving Tony one of her annoyed looks. "I think I have an overhang."
Tony finally started driving toward their crime scene, glancing at Ziva in the rear-view mirror. Tim moved around in his seat to get a good look at Ziva; he gave her a sympathetic smile.
"I think you mean you have a hangover, Ziva."
"Yes, that's it, a hangover. Whatever, I feel like crap."
"You're not going to puke are you?" Tony asked from the driver's seat. The look on his face telling everyone he was slightly disgusted at the thought.
"I do not believe…blaaagh!" What was left of whatever was in Ziva's stomach was now all splattered over her boots and the back foot well. Tony winced, but kept his eyes on the road, while Tim turned away completely from the sound of Ziva's vomiting. When she had finished, Tim looked back to find a very unconscious Ziva slumped against the back seat.
Gibbs looked up from his examination of the deceased Naval officer to see the dark blue Charger carrying his agents come to a screeching halt next to the ME's van. He didn't think they'd ever arrived at a crime scene so quickly; Ziva must be driving, he thought. A slight grin formed on his face, as Gibbs expected Tony and McGee to come tumbling out of the car complaining of Ziva's particularly aggressive driving style. The grin was wiped off his face when DiNozzo poured out of the driver's seat and McGee was opening the back of the car, quickly scooping up an unconscious Ziva in his arms.
"Ducky!" Tony yelled frantically, in Gibbs and Ducky's general direction. Gibbs quickly abandoned the body of the Naval officer, in a quick sprint for the parking lot; Ducky hot on his heels. As the pair crested the small hill that brought them to the parking lot, McGee had already laid Ziva out on the pavement, Ducky rushing to begin an examination of their colleague.
Gibbs quickly rounded on his senior field agent, who looked like someone had slapped him across the face. "What the hell happened, DiNozzo?"
"I don't know, boss. Probie and I picked Ziva up at her apartment like you asked; she looked like crap, but said it was just a hangover. Next thing I know, she's puking in the back seat and then unconscious. We got here as fast as we could."
Before Gibbs or Tony could say anything more, Dr. Mallard interrupted the two by barking orders to the agents milling around. "Mr. Palmer, grab my kit from the truck and a blanket." Gibbs got his first good look at his officer lying prone on the ground; her skin was pale and sweaty and bits of vomit clung to her chin and the front of her clothes. Ducky continued speaking, but in a more hushed tone, "Jethro, I'll have to get Abby to do a tox-screen to be sure, but I think she's been drugged."
The first thing Ziva became aware of when she came to was a slight chill to the air and the coolness of hard metal under her fingers. When she finally opened her eyes, she groaned under the harsh florescent lights of autopsy. With a gasp, she threw herself up onto her forearms and quickly swung her feet over the side of one of Ducky's autopsy tables. Seeing that she was awake, Ducky wandered over to Ziva from his desk.
"Ah, you're awake, my dear. You had your teammates a bit worried for awhile." Seeing that Ziva was looking at her current attire of a NCIS blue jumpsuit and only her socks on her feet, Ducky continued, "Ah, I took the liberty of removing your boots and clothing, since they were well-soiled. And don't worry, my dear, I took great care in preserving your dignity in front of your co-workers. Jethro thought you would prefer my care to that of going to the hospital."
"Thank you, Dr. Mallard." Regaining some semblance of her normal self, Ziva made to get off of the autopsy table, before Ducky stopped her by placing a gentle hand on her shoulder.
"Ah, ah, ah. Jethro made me promise to keep you down here until he got back. He would like to know how Abby found drugs in your system, Rohypnol to be exact." Just then, the doors to autopsy opened to reveal a seriously pissed-off Gibbs. Seeing Jethro's hard-set expression and subtle nod toward the door, the aging medical examiner made excuses and quickly left the room. The doors to autopsy hissed shut behind the doctor's departure before Gibbs looked Ziva squarely in the eye, a note of concern touching his face. Seeing that she was not going to start this conversation, Gibbs took the lead.
"What's going on Ziva? What happened last night?"
Sitting on a metal autopsy table, with just a jumpsuit and her socks, her feet dangling off the side, Ziva felt incredibly vulnerable under Gibbs' stare. It was the same look he usually reserved for suspects and now he had turned it on her. She wanted to squirm and run away, but there was not much to do when your boss was interrogating you in a deserted autopsy suite. Ziva quickly decided that she had to just tell him the truth, regardless of his judgment of her. Taking a deep breath, and letting her shoulders sag a little under her exhaustion, she finally met Gibbs' steely gaze.
"I went out last night…to a bar."
"Which bar?"
"The Dublin House. It is near my apartment, on the corner of 5th and Jackson."
"Why?"
Ziva's cheeks colored a lit in embarrassment before rolling her eyes and looking toward the ceiling. "I believe Tony would call it 'getting a life,' yes?" She paused before meeting his gaze again; his eyes told her that he thought there was more to it than that. She ground her teeth a bit before continuing, "Fine. I was bored and maybe a little bit lonely. Tony's always got his dates, Abby and McGee have each other, and you," she threw one hand haphazardly in his general direction, "you have your boat. Lately, I have had no one."
Gibbs took this all in, his inklings of Ziva's caring for Tony all but confirmed by her last statement. She felt she had lost Tony, when she found out about Jeanne Benoit. Gibbs could hardly blame her for that, but he pressed forward.
"What happened once you arrived at the bar?"
"I had a few drinks; I socialized with some people in the bar." She was having difficulty remembering much of the night, but she would tell Gibbs all she could remember. Her cheeks turned rosy again in embarrassment and humiliation as she relayed the next part of the night, "I left the bar around 3 am, maybe closer to four, with a man, maybe mid-thirties, maybe younger. He had dark hair, clean-cut," Ziva closed her eyes, trying to remember, "a darker skin tone, a prominent nose, brown or perhaps hazel eye color."
"This guy have a name?"
Ziva ran a hand through her long, dark curls before answering, "I…I don't know. Everything is so blurry. I don't know if I just never got his name or if I can't remember it." She started staring off into space, before Gibbs prompted her to continue.
"What happened next?" Gibbs' tone had moved toward being detached rather than angry and Ziva almost thought she would have rather been confronted by an angry Gibbs, instead of this almost sympathy.
"I brought him back to my apartment; the walk is only a few blocks. I did not feel intoxicated. I remember opening the door to my apartment and letting him in. His hands were on my skin and he was kissing my neck." Almost absentmindedly, Ziva's hand moved to rub her left arm.
Gibbs noticed the gesture. "Ducky found a puncture mark on your left arm," Gibbs said slowly. "He thinks that was how you were drugged."
"I know we had sex, but I don't really remember it," Ziva finally looked her boss in the eyes again. "It would have been consensual, so why drug me? How could I let this happen, Gibbs?" Some of her normal spark was back in Ziva's eyes, as well as a good amount of anger. The anger quickly dissipated and quickly turned into self-loathing. "America has made me soft," she whispered quietly, but loud enough that Gibbs heard it.
A quick head-slap brought Ziva out of her self-pity. Gibbs brought his face very close to hers, so she would be forced to look him in the eye. "Hey, you do not get to blame yourself for this! Yes, you were stupid, but you're human, you're not a machine, Ziva." Gibbs raised voice and tone brooked no argument. "So, if you're done with your little pity-party, I suggest we try to do something about this."
Ziva tried to muffle a snort of indignation. "Like what Gibbs? That man is probably smart enough not to go back to the bar and I've already taken a shower, so DNA is out of the question. Somehow I doubt he just left his name and address lying around my apartment."
Gibbs looked his officer square in the eye, and asked, "Are you done?" Receiving a nod and a somewhat chastised look from Ziva, he continued, "Good, because I've got Tony and McGee dusting your apartment for prints as we speak. Now, let's get out of here, unless you like hanging out with dead people?" Gibbs turned and left autopsy. For the first time that morning, Ziva noticed the Naval officer from the park laid out two tables down from her and quickly moved to follow Gibbs back to the squad room.
A few months passed after the "incident," as Ziva thought of it. The first few weeks were spent trying to find the man who had drugged her, but they quickly came up empty and new cases sucked up the team's time. Only Gibbs knew the whole story. Although Ducky must have suspected something when she was in his care, he had the grace to keep his suspicions to himself. When the team finally quit trying to find the man, Ziva was grateful to move on, since she thought of the event as showcasing a personal weakness. She seemed more detached and unemotional than usual, but Gibbs could tell from her eyes that Ziva was still hurting and more than slightly embarrassed over the incident; she put up her tough Mossad officer exterior and pretended to have moved on.
Since their emotional discussion in the bowels of NCIS, Gibbs and Ziva had not discussed the event on anything other than a professional level, as if it were just another case. Soon everyone practically had forgotten about that night or at least seemed to have pushed it to the backs of their minds. Tony started teasing and flirting with Ziva again, McGee stopped stumbling over himself when he was around her, and Abby, well she was just still Abby. Gibbs was glad that his team had come back to some sort of normalcy; Ziva did not take kindly to being treated with kid gloves and Gibbs could tell she had almost reached her boiling point with the extra care and sensitivity that her teammates were showing to her.
Gibbs watched his team from veiled eyes hidden behind his coffee cup, as they each packed up for the evening. They had caught a late case; a Marine Corps intelligence officer, Major Charles Lincoln, found dead in his car. The team had worked through most of the night collecting statements and evidence; the Marine's personal computers and hard drives were currently locked in the evidence locker pending processing by McGee, while the Marine's body lay in autopsy awaiting Ducky's care.
Tony and Ziva departed first. Judging by Tony's affronted look, Ziva had just insulted him in some way. A slightly harsh, "McGee," from Gibbs, and a suggestive look toward the elevator sent Tim on his way home for the night. That left only Special Agent Leroy Jethro Gibbs sitting in his bullpen, a thoughtful and pensive look on his face. His gut was telling him there was something more to this case than just a dead Marine, but for the life of him, he couldn't put his finger on what.
The next morning found Gibbs at his desk, bright and early, Starbucks coffee cup in hand. Tony came in soon after 7 am, even though Gibbs had told all of his team not to arrive any time before eight. Tony could hardly help it though; he had the feeling that they were missing something and one look at Gibbs told him that his boss was getting that same nagging sensation in his gut.
Tony glanced over to Ziva's empty desk, surprised to not see her sitting behind her computer. Most days she beat him into the office by a few hours. He shrugged mentally to himself; maybe for once she was following Gibbs' orders to actually stay away from work, rather than showing up at 0500 sharp.
With a squeal of tires, Ziva slid her red Mini Cooper into a tight parking spot on the lowest level of NCIS's underground parking complex. With a little chagrin, she noted to herself that coming in early and beating the crowd definitely had its advantages; most days she was just a flight of stairs away from the bullpen. Today however, running late as she was and that was even after she had planned to come in at eight like Gibbs' had said, she was parked in a far corner of the lot deep under the building that housed the headquarters for NCIS, as well as several other Navy agencies. A few more stairs really didn't bother her that much, though, so she called out quickly for the man just entering the staircase to hold the door, his back and a large bag slung over his shoulder toward her.
Ziva juggled a box of files and the remnants of her McDonald's drive-thru breakfast in her arms as she jogged for the door that was being held open for her. As she squeezed through the opening and got a handle on her things, she glanced back at the man holding the door, a thank-you on her lips. One look was all it took to job Ziva's memory to that night a few months prior; the dark hair, dark eyes, prominent nose. She knew it was him and from the self-satisfied look on his face, he recognized her as well.
With what she was carrying forgotten, files dropped through the air and scattered at Ziva's feet as she went for the weapon at her side. He was faster, however, and the silenced weapon made hardly a sound as the man easily put a bullet into Ziva's right leg before she could draw her gun up to fire. With a grunt, Ziva staggered backwards a step before regaining her bearing.
"Put your weapon down," the man ordered, his gun now squarely pointed at Ziva's face.
With little choice, Ziva threw her gun aside. The man closed the few steps between them, a smirk on his face, "Who knew it would be so easy to subdue you…again?"
When he had moved in close enough, Ziva took her chance, slapping her right hand to the inside of her assailant's wrist, while using her left hand to hit against the back of his right palm. She ducked her head out of the way, as he instinctively pulled back on the trigger. Before he knew what had happened, the man's gun was out of his hand and he was stumbling backward from a blow Ziva delivered to his throat. As he choked, Ziva quickly followed up by thrusting the heel of her palm into his nose, blood swiftly gushing out.
The man impulsively reached up to hold his bleeding face, staggering blindly until his back reached the far wall of the bottom of the staircase. Ziva quickly made to deliver another blow, this time a left hook headed towards the man's face. Before her fist could reach its destination, however, the man had recovered enough to lock Ziva's incoming arm with his and twist. With a howl of pain, Ziva's back arched as she heard and felt the bones in her elbow snap. In desperation, as her attacker held her by her now broken arm, Ziva reached behind her back to the knife she kept hidden there.
Her fingers wrapped around the worn, black leather handle and with a shout of effort, she used all of the strength left in her to push off her wounded leg and round on the man. White-hot pain shot through her arm, as Ziva swung around, trying to lodge her knife in the man's abdomen. Shock registered on his face as Ziva turned, metal glinting in the harsh florescent lights of the stairwell. He barely had enough time to get out of the way, but even then it was not enough. He released his grip on Ziva as her knife plunged into his side, missing its mark, but doing its job nonetheless.
Ziva crumpled to the ground, her leg having given out on her and her arm sending breaking waves of pain shooting through her. With her heart beating nearly out of her chest, she started crawling back toward her gun, lying on the floor a few feet away. As her slender fingers made contact with the pistol grip, a booted foot made contact with her hand. In that moment, Ziva knew she had lost this fight. She looked up the booted foot crushing her hand to the body attached to it and the last thing she saw was the other boot coming toward her face before everything turned black.
The whole fight had lasted less than a minute and the dark-haired man had been left with a broken nose and a stab wound to his left side. Neither was life-threatening, but more of an annoyance. He'd make Ziva pay. Hell, he already had. He swiftly rolled Ziva's unconscious form over onto her back, her left arm lying at an odd angle away from her body. He picked up his own weapon and put it back into his coat before grabbing Ziva's own weapon and putting it into his belt. He tossed his bag back over his shoulder and grabbed Ziva by her uninjured arm and slung her like a rag-doll over his shoulder in a fireman's carry.
Checking that no one was in the parking garage, he swiftly stepped out into the open and called up the elevator located near the stairwell. With his hand on Ziva's gun in case of unwanted company, he waited for the doors to open and stepped inside when they did. He relieved himself of his burdens by dumping Ziva against one wall, her body completely limp in her unconscious state, and setting down his duffel against the opposite wall. As the doors closed, the man punched in the level for MTAC and the director's office, waiting for the car to start moving before hitting the emergency stop.
The lights dimmed in the car. The man silently moved to his bag, zipped it open, and pulled out a flak vest rigged with explosives. For the moment he set this aside, however, and sat with his back against the elevator wall. He gingerly felt the area around Ziva's knife and determining that it probably wasn't attached to anything vital, grasped the handle and pulled. With a small whimper and a grimace on his face, the man pulled off strips of his jacket for make-shift bandages. That done, he cautiously felt around his nose. Yes, it was definitely broken; with a grunt it was reset. He wiped the blood off his face with his sleeve.
Then he moved to Ziva, she was still out cold. He frisked her for weapons, finding another small pistol on her ankle and her handcuffs, he relieved her of them. Next he strapped the explosive vest around Ziva's chest, delicately connecting all the leads, and finally pulling out a dead-man's switch from his bag and activating the vest.
With one last double-check, he looked at Ziva's slack face and grinned to himself, "Hmm, as these Americans like to say, 'It's show time.'"
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