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Part 3 of The Frost Chronicles
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Peja's Wonderful World of Makebelieve Import
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2020-11-05
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A Short Swift Kick

Summary:

Tony finds out Ziva is dead, and needs someone to talk to before he self-destructs.

Work Text:

"The Damocles went down in a storm," Gibbs said softly. "There were no survivors."

Tony’s world dropped out from under him. He had known loss before now, of course: his mom’s death and his dad’s rejection. Paula’s sacrifice had rocked his world too, but not like this. He realized with those words exactly how much Ziva had meant to him, but it was too late.

Much too late.

He staggered through work like a robot: mindless and heartless. He threw himself into every case he could, plowing through evidence, shooting hundreds of crime scene photos, running down leads, and interrogating suspects with a ruthlessness that shocked even Gibbs. Tony iced over, and even the well-meant banter of his team-mates could not pull him out of his stupor.

He refused all offers of comfort, of camaraderie, of even a quiet dinner and a few beers with Tim or Gibbs. Time off work was spent in an alcohol-induced haze, alone in his darkened apartment, watching old movies on a small CRT TV set he had found at a second-hand store. Sometimes it was spent driving aimlessly around the darkened city, just being anywhere that Ziva hadn’t been, so he wouldn’t be surprised to not see her show up.

Like tonight.

He had left work—the case was closed anyway—and picked up a six pack of beer and a few frozen pizzas on his way home, but just couldn’t make himself go there. Instead, he found himself taking a few odd turns on the freeway, just driving around, and nearly got himself lost.

Not a good thing, getting lost in DC, he thought to himself. What with it being the murder capital of the country and all.

He missed the irony of his own emotional death completely. What would it matter if he died now, now that Ziva was gone?

He didn’t realize he had stopped at a particular house until he found himself turning the engine off, and he shook himself back to reality. He did know this place; he’d been here many times, just not recently.

What the hell, he thought, maybe some different company tonight wouldn’t be such a bad thing. Hefting his paper grocery bag with the pizza and beer, he went to the front door and rang the bell.

Sofia answered it, and her face lit up when she saw him.

"Tio Tony," she squealed, jumping out the door and crashing into him with a hug. He shook with the sudden impact, and reeled a little bit as he tried to regain his balance, and then the child was off again, running back into the house yelling "Mama’! Mama’! Tio Tony esta’ aqui!"

Brynja appeared at the open door a minute later, both girls behind her. She smiled warmly, and stood on tiptoe to kiss him on the cheek, as was her custom, and said simply: "Come in. You’re just in time for dinner."

She moved a lot slower than before, he noticed. Stiffer, even, as if motion itself was an effort done through pain, but she insisted on taking his bag and putting the beer in the fridge, and the pizza in the freezer.

"Even if we don’t eat it tonight, you may want to take it home later," she said perfunctorily. Turning to face him, she finally caught the look in his eyes, the emptiness, and hesitated. "Tony," she started, but he shook his head.

"Not now." He didn’t want to fall apart in front of Elsa and Sofia.

Brynja nodded to her friend. "We’ll have dinner first, then. I’ll make a few calls while you and the girls set the table."

She went immediately to the phone, and Tony could hear snatches of conversation while he and the girls set the table for four. Brynja had evidently made fast friends with Diane Fornell, for the woman quickly agreed to pick up Elsa and Sofia after dinner, supposedly to go out for dessert.

Dinner was lasagna, with salad and breadsticks. Tony insisted on lighting candles "for atmosphere", and the four of them made small talk while they ate. Tony tried to swipe one of Elsa’s breadsticks while making a joke, only to catch a warning look from Brynja. He looked down at Elsa to find the child glaring at him, Brynja-like, and threatening him with one of her utensils.

"Tengo una tenedor, Tio Tony," she said warningly, "y pienso como usarle!"

His eyes widened in mock fear. "Muy bien, Elsa," he nodded. "Can you warn me off in Ingles?"

She grinned. "Si’! I has a fork, and I have not fear to be using it!"

Tony actually laughed for the first time in…how long? He didn’t know, but it felt good.

"Muy buena, Elsa," he encouraged her, "pretty good. You have been practicing. I saw the labels on things in the kitchen, Brynja. Is everything in the house labeled in English and Spanish?"

She swallowed. "Yes. It’s a technique I picked up in primary school. We watch a few cartoons in both English and Spanish as well, but I’m afraid I’m getting tired of Clifford, el Perro Rojo y Grande. Its novelty wore off after the first ten times," she confessed.

"Mmmm," he nodded. "I’ll see what I can pick up. The three of you can handle more than old Clifford, I’m sure." He reached for another breadstick. "So, how is physical therapy going?"

Sofia scowled. "No me gusta physical therapy!"

"I don’t gusta it either, dear, but you know we tenemos it to get well," Brynja pointed out. "If we don’t do our exercises, we won’t be able to move like we should."

"Si’, Mama, but it is aburre," Sofia protested.

"Muy aburre," Elsa agreed.

Brynja looked over at Tony, confused. "What is aburre?"

"Boring," he told her. "I’m not surprised. If your doctors can clear you for it, you might want to take a Pilates or a Taequondo class. They’ll start slow, and you can progress at your own pace."

The girls brightened up as Tony explained again in Spanish, and Brynja nodded. "That’s a great idea; I’ll ask our PT specialists at our next session. Thanks!"

They continued harmless chatter through the rest of the meal, and when they were through eating Tony helped clear the table and wash the dishes. Brynja watched him out of the sides of her eyes, seeing the control he was exerting to look normal, and worried about her friend. He was obviously on the edge of a break, and it wasn’t a good one. She wondered, again, what had brought him to her door, and what she would need to say…

If anything, she thought quietly. Sometimes the best kind of advice is not spoken.

A car horn sounded in the driveway, and Brynja helped the girls out the door. Diane turned to her after the girls were buckled in for a quick word.

"How long?"

Doubt appeared for the first time on Brynja’s face. "I don’t know, but it looks serious. Give us a couple of hours at least, will you?"

"Be careful."

"I will."

Brynja waved as Diane pulled out with Emily, Elsa, and Sofia in the car, and then went back into the house.

She found Tony in the kitchen, wiping down the counter with a strange ferocity, his hands busy but his eyes an empty shell. Brynja looked at him oddly, then opened a pantry drawer and pulled out a large kitchen towel. She tossed it carelessly over one shoulder, then moved quietly to Tony’s side and stopped his scouring hand.

"Tony," she said, gently. "Talk."

He froze at the contact, hands balling into fists around nothing and a rag, and then started to shake. He tried to compose himself with a deep breath, and suddenly turned towards the fridge.

"This was a mistake, Brynja. I should go. I have to…"

"Nei, you don’t," she said, suddenly ferocious, stabbing his chest with a finger and sounding very Nordic. "GERA ORD! TALK!"

Tony felt his control slipping away, the emptiness preparing to swallow him again, and knew Brynja saw it on his face. Her eyes widened, and she reached up and took his face in her hands, pulling his eyes down so she could look into them.

"You found her," she said after a minute.

He nodded mutely, choking and trying to draw away. She pushed him with surprising force back against the kitchen wall. It was only two inches, but the ‘thump’ still shocked him a little.

"No running, Tony. Talk. You found her, your Yin. And?"

"She’s dead." The words escaped him as a hoarse whisper: barely audible. "Dead. Gone. Ship sank in a storm weeks ago. Before we even…"

"Before we even met," she finished for him.

He nodded mutely and inhaled, trying to suck the raw emotions back inside where they wouldn’t betray him, wouldn’t show how weak he really was…

"Come with me," she said suddenly, grabbing his limp hands and dragging him to the living room. He followed dumbly, obeying when she steered him to a couch and made him sit in the middle. Brynja sat next to him, suddenly wishing the towel on her shoulder was bigger, and took his face in her hands again.

"Do you trust me?" She looked straight into his eyes as she said it.

"Yes." The hollowness was too strong to permit lying.

"You need this," she cautioned.

"I need what?" Grief had sucked him dry. He couldn’t even think anymore…

"It’s a shoulder, Tony. You cry on it."

Horror crept in, the fear of looking, of being weak. "No, I don’t think…"

"Yes, you do, and that’s the problem," she chided gently. "You don’t need to think now. You need to grieve. There’s no reason to be ashamed. You loved her…and she’s gone."

That did it. The tears broke, and Tony sobbed on Brynja’s shoulder like an infant.

Brynja eventually tossed the towel aside; it was soaked anyway. She opted instead for a couch pillow on her lap, with Tony’s head cradled there, her hand stroking his hair as he continued to sob.

Tony sobbed for at least 45 minutes, until his eyes ran dry and he was reduced to hiccups. When he was finally able to speak it was only in a whisper, and Brynja let him babble: Israel, the mission, the boyfriend, the fight, the break between him and….she left him, the other mission, the terrorist, the ship, the storm, all hands lost at sea. She let him go on for nearly another hour, asking leading questions to draw out his thoughts and feelings, until she was certain he was finally emotionally clean.

He lay back on the couch, his head resting on the pillow on her lap, her hand still stroking his hair, and looked up at her. Her hair had started to grow out again: thick yellow fuzz that looked oddly like a small halo. St. Brynja. He smiled at the thought.

"What is it?" She saw his little smile.

"I was just thinking how your hair looks like a halo," he admitted.

She snorted. "You won’t think me so angelic in a minute. Sit up."

He did so, puzzled again, and opened his mouth, but she held up a hand.

"Just listen," She insisted. He nodded. "You have the hard part. You have to live."

He opened his mouth again, but she hushed him with a hand on his lips. "You have a job to do now."

Confusion clouded his face, but she motioned for silence. "This terrorist, whoever he is, you have to find him. YOU HAVE TO FIND HIM. Because if you don’t, he’ll just keep on killing people, JUST LIKE HE KILLED YOUR PARTNER!"

Tony felt a chill sweep down his spine. "The storm…"

"Be quiet," Brynja snapped. "That storm was damn convenient, don’t you think? The right place, at the right time? And it was laden with what? Stuff for the terrorist, right? Arms, materials, soldiers? Creature comforts, perhaps? Do you honestly think a man like that will let his entire stores just sink to the bottom of the ocean? You’re a cop, dammit, think like one! If he has it, he killed her!"

Tony looked down into Brynja’s cold Icelandic eyes, and felt his old anger coming back.

"Stop feeling sorry for yourself, get off your ass, and take him down!"

She was right. He could feel it. He had to do this, for Ziva’s sake.

Brynja took a breath, prepared to chew off another piece of Tony’s ass, but he grabbed her by the shoulders and kissed her full on the mouth.

"You’re a genius," he said, jumping up and running for the kitchen. She put a restraining hand on the freezer door.

"You may take the beer with you," she said in a good-natured growl, "but I’m claiming the pizza as a fee."

"Ok," he said, pulling the six-pack out of the fridge. He leaned down to give her a quick peck on the lips, then put the six-pack down on the counter. "Oh, hell," he said, and bent down to kiss her properly. "Thanks," he said, releasing her, and he walked out to his car and drove away.

Brynja watched him leave: silently hoping he would come back from his next mission alive. She had nearly died trying to avenge her own partner. I hope I didn’t just send him to his death, she thought fervently.

-----------------------------------------------------------------

Gibbs picked up the phone at his desk the next morning. He listened for a few moments, then made the announcement:

"Grab your gear!" He was turning to grab his own bag when it happened.

"NO!" Tony announced.

Gibbs stopped. Tony was back, spine, attitude, and all. Something had happened.

"No?" he prompted.

"No," Tony insisted. "We go after him and we get him. Before one more person dies." He met Gibbs’ eyes with ferocity not seen in months. Gibbs nodded.

"Make your case."

The end.

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