Disclaimer: I own nothing.

His Whiskey

Chapter 7

Ziva's phone went off again. He had wanted to tell her that it was ok, that she had made the move in time, that she was a hero for what she had done.

"What do you want Tony?" she asked the caller angrily. She listened for a moment. "His print is not a match...Well next time we should both listen to my instincts," she said before hanging up. Michael stared at her, realizing what she was talking about. She had suspected him all along.

"Was that about me?" he asked, praying that she would deny it. She didn't say a word. "Was this about me, still a suspect?" He had thought he was helping her for a change by coming here with her. He had thought that letting her go would not be so difficult after he had given something back.

"I never believed it," she said pleadingly. He could feel his anger welling up, but relief also. This had to end anyway.

"How'd you get my print?" he asked.

"You touched my gun," she answered shortly.

"So you took my finger print, ran it, I didn't match up and now you're telling me you never believed it was me?"

"Look, I tried to stop this. Ok? I'm sorry Michael," her voice changed at the end, softening. He could tell she meant it, he could hear the truth in her words, and if she were any other woman he would have taken her in his arms and told her that it was alright. It took everything he had to spit out what he knew came next.

"I wish I could believe you Ziva, Gina, whatever," He took a long last look at her and walked out. It was easier to hide behind this mask of anger than to admit what he had been going to tell her. Resentment was simpler than saying he was not man enough for her. Yes, he thought, better to go back to his search for soft, sweet Devon than have to cower at the feet of this lioness.

When he arrived home from work that night Michael headed to the liquor cabinet, thinking to erase that afternoon's memories. A half empty bottle of Jack sat obscenely alone in what was usually a well stocked bar. He picked it up, unscrewed the cap, and then paused. He sniffed the amber contents and shuddered. Putting the cap back on he threw it in the trash can. He had to stop drinking that stuff.

Michael grabbed his keys and headed to the Oyster Lounge, knowing that Ziva wouldn't be there tonight.

He was drinking a beer, relishing the light freshness of it after three weeks of whiskey when she walked in. She looked beautiful and healthy again, he admitted to himself. Maybe he had given her something after all.

"What do you want?" he said for appearances sake. She placed a small piece of paper down on the counter next to him.

"Telephone number," she said. "I found Devon." Michael's heart stopped beating. "I thought I owed you that much," she explained to him. She looked at him for a moment, but he couldn't speak.

"She wants to talk to you," Ziva said with a tiny smile before turning and walking away.

"Ziva," he called out, emotion spilling into his voice. She turned to face him. "Thanks," he managed. She nodded in acknowledgement and left forever.

She masked her hurt too easily, he thought. He had been cruel to her, and a lesser woman would have never thought to do what she had just done. He thought about what her reaction would be if he ran after her and kissed her one last time. Instead, Michael watched her walk away, the smooth, powerful roll of her hips reminding him once more why she deserved a much better man than he.

He picked up the piece of paper and dialed the numbers, his hands shaking.

"Hello?" came that soft voice.