Ashleigh Anpilova


A sequel to Keeping Watch.

Tony goes to Ziva's apartment.

A first time story.

Written: March 2011. Word count: 500.




He rings the bell and waits. He knows she's home because her car is outside and he can see a light showing from inside her apartment.


He rings the bell again and waits. He'll go on ringing it all night if he has to. He has nowhere else to be, nowhere else he'd rather be.


He is about to ring for a third time when she opens the door. She's dressed in a robe; her hair is wet; her eyes are red. "Tony." She doesn't seem surprised to see him there. "I was in the shower," she adds unnecessarily. "What do you want?"


He grins and holds up his offerings. "I've got pizza and tequila," he says. "Well, are you going to invite me in?"


For a moment he thinks she'll say 'no'. But instead she stands to one side. As he passes her he can smell the scent of almonds and lemons coming from her freshly washed body and hair.


Murmuring something about getting dressed, she leaves him alone to look around the main room of her new apartment. It's uncluttered, tidy, clean, bland; it shows little of her true personality. The only slightly incongruous thing is a small, battered teddy bear sitting on a bookcase. He's about to go and look at it when she reappears wearing sweatpants and a sweatshirt; her still shower-wet hair is tied back.


He thinks of all the things he wants to say and do. He wants to take her into his arms, hold her and promise her everything will be all right. He wants to take away the sadness he sees on her face. Instead he says simply, "Tell me, Ziva."


For a moment she is silent. When she does speak, her words surprise him. "Have you forgiven your father? Are you keeping in touch with him? Are you," she pauses, then adds quietly, "father and son again?"


Before he can answer, she speaks again. "You tell yourself there is time. You tell yourself you can still make things right. You tell yourself you can say what you really feel. You tell yourself tomorrow, next week, next month, next year, it will be all right. You have time. And then -" He stares in horror as her eyes fill with tears and they tumble down her face. "And then," she whispers, "you learn it is too late. You are too late. You cannot tell him how you feel. You can never say 'I love you, Abba'. Do not leave it until it is too late, as I did. If you love someone tell them."


The tears are now streaming down her face. He doesn't know if what he's doing is right. All he can do is to act on her words. He gathers her into his arms, pulling her close. Then he brushes her lips with his, tasting the salt from her tears. "I love you, Ziva David," he says, as she puts her head on his shoulder and sobs. "I love you."



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