Title : ...And So It Goes
Song : "And So It Goes" -by- Billy Joel
Pairing : Ziva David x Anthony DiNozzo
Disclaimer : I do not own NCIS or any of its characters.
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"In every heart there is a room, a sanctuary safe and strong."
The curtains reminded him of the long forgotten coffee cup in Paris, a single cream and four sugars.
It was the sugar in the first place that had driven him outside onto the patio of the small cafe, breathing in the scent of the surrounding azalea bushes as he claimed a table of his own. Unfamiliar languages swirled around him more like melody than conversation, the lens of the camera becoming his only sight as he took in everything through a 50mm attachment. Architecture had become the highlight of his focus, sharp and crisp in its execution and design, so different from the mottled gray forms of Washington. Here there were curves, twists, and personality. Mottled browns and fiery reds that blended easily back into soft yellows and aged wood.
It was a single voice that caught him off guard, pulling his gaze away from the sky and back to reality as he twisted everything back into frame. The blaring car horns, the constant foreign chattering, the occasional barking of a dog off in the distance. Yet her voice was unmistakeable. She stood with her back to him, hair curled and wild down her back. He had suggested it back at the hotel, in passing more then anything, and yet there she stood in obvious agreement. French rolled off her tongue, an easy transition as she gestured towards the old man in the appropriate direction. She spoke with her hands, no matter the language she was using, and it made him question if there wasn't French somewhere in her family history. A constant query that he never voiced and probably never would.
She turned, and in that moment everything came together. The camera clicked as the sun filtered down from behind the decaying brick building in the background, a playful glint in her eye as she caught the sign of the cafe they had agreed to meet at. The smile playing on her lips was so cautionary and real, as if someone would turn to look at her and it would be gone in an instant. Yet he held it there, a single moment in time as it realized itself on film, a second and nothing more.
The curtains reminded him of a long forgotten coffee cup in Paris, and as he wrapped his hand around hers, he couldn't help but gaze fondly at the thin fabric. "It was gracious of you to share it with me." The words are whispered before he even realizes his lips are apart. She shifts beneath him, their eyes locking as her eyebrow raises in question, the slightest tilt of her head cementing the confusion that matches both of their features. It takes a moment for the dots to connect but when they do he nuzzles into her neck, savoring the scent of her shampoo and the warmth of their bodies held together only by a thin sheet sprawled across the bed. "Casablanca, 1942. Ilsa thanks Senor Ferrari for coffee and he responds in kind." He props himself up on one elbow, free hand absentmindedly playing with her hair. It's long and curled and frames her face in a way that he'll never understand. "I was thinking about Paris." He admits.
The confusion doesn't leave her eyes, but her features settle despite the fact and he can almost hear the wheels spinning. She won't understand the connection between black and white classics to a routine mission that had ended rather strangely, to the bedroom they've now decided to cocoon themselves in. He'll never tell her, either, and as he rests his forehead against hers, they both smile at the oddity of the situation.
She can feel it on a nearly subconscious level, stealing a kiss while still being able to hold him close to her. There is no intention to move, but she knows better then to take something for granted, so she basks in their moments. "The chair." He almost takes it as an order, but when her eyes mist over in memory, he relaxes with a glance towards the object in question. In a room of earthy colors and soft fabrics, the single red chair was a rather odd addition to an otherwise aesthetically pleasing area. It is small and thick, only ever used when she is reading a book or he happens to pick up a newspaper in the early morning hours. "You wore a red tie that night." She whispers in his ear and it finally clicks into place. Paris.
It was a spare safe house and nothing more, rented under the disguise of a Spanish woman looking to secretary at a local law firm. There are photo ids, official documents that are all stamped and accounted for, all neatly in place and ready to grab in case of emergency. He knows this because she knows this, and more importantly she set the entire thing up long before any intention of using the building came into view. Paris had transformed the safe house into a sanctuary, somewhere they could come to be themselves without fear of repercussion. It had no ties to Mossad, no ties to NCIS, and no ties to either of them save the single key they kept in their pockets.
"I love you, Ziva."
"I love you, my little hairy butt."