A/N: This was difficult to read so I've edited it - hope that helps.
In The Wee Small Hours - Mann/Hilliard
When your lonely heart has learned its lesson
You'd be hers if only she would call
In the wee small hours of the morning
That's the time you miss her most of all
Tony threw his cell onto the table; straight to voice-mail again. Over three hours since he'd left work and he'd lost track of how many times he'd tried to call her. He looked at his watch – 11.17 p.m. Late, even later by the time he got to her place. He just wanted to check on her. From the time he'd rescued her, he had to know she was OK. Actually, this need had started long before Somalia. Only he hadn't acknowledged it until he believed he'd lost her. The past few days had come at a price. Not content with the distress caused simply by his presence, Eli David insisted on bringing trouble too. She held it together, as ever, did her job and then some. No-one would know there was anything amiss – except Tony. He could tell by her eyes, by the way she spoke, by the way she moved. And by the way she was avoiding him.
It wasn't too late to go over – not when he was worried. He hadn't been inside her new apartment. The last time he'd been inside her old apartment was the night he shot Rivkin. And Ziva didn't visit his apartment. Neither of them ever said anything – an unspoken agreement. Movie nights were at the office. At weekends, they'd very occasionally meet for lunch, drinks, whatever; always on neutral territory. In a weird way it worked. It was all because of 'that moment'. At some point, during these non-date dates, the mood would shift. The atmosphere would charge. They'd hesitate. Each watching, waiting for the other to act or speak; until it became too awkward and too intense. Then he'd joke or she'd deflect and 'that moment' would pass.
Nothing had happened in Paris; nothing more than sharing a bed. However, 'that moment' had seemed to last an entire trip. The night had been hell; relieved by a timely 'phone call from McGee and the sudden desire to take a walk – alone. She was asleep by the time he returned; saved by jetlag. He often wondered what would happen if he didn't back off, or let her run, from such moments. Not so much wonder about the sex. Though, in all honesty, the idea of fucking Ziva was a dead-cert in terms of distraction value. A constant since the day she'd sauntered into the squad-room all tease and provocation. He wished he could pick up a woman, any woman, to catch a break from it. One-night-stands didn't work anymore; it was always her name he wanted to say, always her face he wanted to see. No, he wondered mostly about the other part of the equation. This insane, intangible 'thing' they had but were unable to manage or move forward; the looks, the close contact; the sense they were incomplete without each other. It was even expressed in the fights; the strength of their feelings bubbling through, coloring the disputes. The way he'd felt when he thought she was in love with Rivkin, when he'd seen her bruised and broken in Somalia. When he'd thought she was dead.
As he pulled into the parking lot, he realized her car wasn't there.
Shit, she's not home.
Tony hadn't been expecting that. She might be out for a run but the car would be here, with Abby or other friends. Maybe over at Gibbs' - Ziva talked to him when she was troubled. All the team did, still he couldn't help the small stab of irrational jealousy. Or, and this thought made his chest constrict – maybe the guy from Miami. Perhaps she'd told him about Eli's visit and he'd come to comfort her.
Hell, you traveled halfway round the globe just to exact a little payback for her death. Hopping the first flight to D.C. would be a no-brainer if she needed you.
He didn't want to call Abby to ask if she knew where Ziva was – she was curious enough about them. He definitely wasn't about to call Gibbs. He sat considering the options. One; wait here until she showed up or until he had to head to work, if she didn't. Two; the Navy Yard and do the McTracker cell 'phone location deal. He decided on the latter.
Maybe it was bordering on bat-shit crazy obsessive.
If he found out she was at some hotel downtown he'd go home, forget it.
Well, OK, go home and get loaded - which causes temporary amnesia if you do it right.
Her car was at the Navy Yard – which was wrong. She wasn't on the graveyard shift and Gibbs would never have called her in to cover. Not after recent events. His boss was tough but there was a heart in there – something had to pump the caffeine to his brain. The light was on at her desk, her bag on top but no sign of her - Autopsy. Ducky kept a bottle of Scotch in an unlocked desk drawer. The rule was anyone could, with no questions asked, as long as it was never left empty or nearly empty. His first reaction was relief that he'd found her. It was quickly replaced by sickening alarm. She had that lost look in her eyes; the one that broke his heart every time. And because her hands were clasped around the small Israeli flag Eli had given her - and her Sig. Ziva always had a disturbingly comfortable look when handling guns. This was different.