This started out as a much shorter chapter for my 'Partners' piece, but then I fleshed it out into something completely unexpected. Not sure if it's any good, but I hope you like it.
Overseas assignments were always a bit hit and miss for Tony. He either found them to be productive, educational and—dare he say—fun, or they could just as easily be a drag. It was usually the latter. He was never a fan of long flights or hopping between time zones. And that was before he even arrived at his destination. Some of the hell holes he'd stayed in over the years had made him homesick within minutes of being there. More often than not these hotel rooms would fail to provide a working air conditioning system, which either led to unbearable heat or unrelenting cold. He'd lost count of the number of sleepless nights he'd had as a result. He liked his American bed, his American food, and his American climate.
All in all, he didn't tend to enjoy travelling for work.
However, every now and then, there came a trip that he not only tolerated, but actively enjoyed. Of course, the location was a huge factor when it came to this. Another factor—perhaps an even more important one—was the company. He'd only been there for a few hours, but Tony could tell there were few places he liked more than Barcelona. And there was definitely no one he enjoyed spending time with more than his partner. He was convinced this was going to be one of the good trips.
The apartment they'd been provided with was perfect—not too small, but not too grand and fancy. They had their own kitchen and living area, and the balcony in the bedroom provided a stunning view of the docks. The famous Las Ramblas was only a minute away by foot, and the area seemed to have a constant buzz about it. Tony had to admit he was more than happy to be there. And the air conditioning worked. What more could you ask for?
He returned from his restaurant scouting mission and found Ziva on the balcony. She was looking out over the docks, which were now glowing under the combination of the moon and the city lights. He gave himself a second to lean on the bedroom doorframe and take her in. She was wearing a summery white dress, which was light and pretty enough to make her look like the average tourist. He supposed that was what she had been aiming for. Her loose curls fluttered gently in the light breeze and he could see the corner of her mouth lifting slightly into a smile as she gazed at everything, and nothing. She was stunning. But what else did he expect? Spain looked good on her.
Out here, in the exotic heat, she was completely in her element.
''Beautiful,'' he commented.
If she was startled by his voice, she didn't show it. ''Yes. It is quite a city.''
He smiled to himself as he stepped onto the balcony beside her. ''I wasn't talking about the view.''
Her eyes flicked to his face, and he didn't need to look at her to see the small smile tugging at her mouth. ''That sounds like red-light behaviour to me, Tony,'' she accused teasingly, forcing his smile to grow wider briefly.
''Maybe,'' he conceded, before meeting her gaze and managing to hold it. ''But your eyes always give me the green light.''
She chuckled quietly as they stared at each other for longer than was probably necessary. After a few silent moments, they both turned to look out over the docks again. He was vaguely aware of her shoulder brushing against his—had she moved closer? —but didn't comment on it. In fact, as they watched the moonlight sparkle off the Mediterranean, he was happy to just have her with him. He would gladly indulge in the silence if she wanted him to.
''Any luck finding somewhere to eat?'' she asked after a few minutes.
He blinked his way out of his trance. ''Um, yeah. There's plenty to choose from.''
''I feel like a real, Catalonian seafood paella.''
''That shouldn't be too hard find,'' he told her. ''Seeing as we're in the capital of Catalonia.''
Suddenly, she reached over and gripped his arm with both of her hands. ''Have you tried one before?'' she asked him with wide eyes, which were now as urgent as they were warm.
He wasn't sure where her animation had come from, and frowned down at her inquisitive face. ''No,'' he answered carefully.
She groaned and threw her head back as her grip on his arm tightened. ''Oh, you must try it, Tony,'' she insisted. ''It is to die for. Provided you find a place that does it right, of course.''
He smiled slightly under his frown of amusement. ''Of course,'' he mimicked.
Her eyes narrowed. ''Are you making fun of me?''
''Would I ever do that to you?'' The sudden arching of her eyebrow was more than enough to answer that question. ''Okay, maybe I would. But I am definitely open to trying the paella,'' he ensured her. ''It seems to be high up on the list of Chef David's recommended meals.''
She winked at him. ''It's in the top ten.''
That forced a chuckle out of him. ''Well, in that case, my hands are tied.''
...
They managed to find a beautiful little restaurant on the seafront. Their table overlooked the water, and it was just private and romantic enough for it to feel like a date. Tony couldn't help but treat it as one. Judging by the warmth in Ziva's expression and the way she frequently reached over to touch his hand, she was treating it the same way. Something about that made his chest warm. She kept touching him for no real reason, other than the fact she wanted to. This wasn't a show being put on by undercover federal agents. No. This was simply two partners enjoying each other's company, tip-toeing around the line between simply being close friends and being, well, something more intimate. Tony was loving every second of it.
After they'd ordered a large seafood paella for two, Tony looked at someone eating one a few tables down. ''If I don't like it, it's your fault.''
She nodded simply. ''Deal.''
''I'm feeling sceptical,'' he told her, his eyes still scanning the large dish. He had to admit, though, it did look appetising.
''Don't,'' she ordered him, ''You will like it. Trust me.''
He turned back to see her smirking at him from behind her wine glass. ''When it comes to food, I always trust you, Little Miss Culinary.''
Her smile grew before she reeled it in. ''Only when it comes to food?''
He pretended to think about that. ''Well, maybe not only then.''
''I should hope not.''
He assured her he was kidding with warmth in his smile. ''I guess I trust you with other stuff, too,'' he reasoned.
''Like what?'' she asked innocently.
He knew this had the potential to get serious, and quickly, so he tried to keep it as light as possible. ''I trust you to book me the window seat on the plane,'' he began, forcing a snort out of her. He was happy to amuse her further. ''And to buy me the exact sandwich I want at lunchtime.''
''You usually ask for it specifically,'' she argued.
His grinned fully for a second, but then continued on. ''I trust you to stay quiet if I've played a prank on McGee,'' he said, mirroring her knowing look. ''And I trust you enough to be my drinking buddy—which is usually a mistake—and I— ''
''Why is it a mistake?'' she cut in with her mouth agape.
He raised both eyebrows her, daring her to argue his next point. ''Because we both go overboard and get into bar fights.''
Her eyes narrowed as she raised an accusing finger at him. ''That is always your fault!''
He smiled, only because he knew she would say that. And because it was true. ''That's wild conjecture, Agent David.''
''It is always you,'' she insists, ''and it is usually because some guy is googling me.''
He paused and stuck his tongue into his cheek. ''You definitely got that wrong on purpose.''
''It does not matter. You know I am right.''
Again, very true. ''Well, who can remember?''
She raised her eyebrows at him, clearly not buying it for a second, before releasing a throaty chuckle. ''My memories from those nights certainly tend to be a little…catchy,'' she admitted.
''Patchy.''
She clicked her fingers at him with a nod. ''Yes. I'm sure that is what I meant.''
He winked at her. ''I always know what you mean.''
She narrowed her eyes for him playfully, before taking another sip of her wine. ''That is another thing you trust me with, yes?'' She said after a few quiet moments. ''Having your back in bar fights.''
''Yeah, I guess it is,'' he agreed with a tilt of his head. ''And fights in general, really.''
''Gunfights,'' she offered.
This time, though, there was a far sincerer underlying tone in her voice. The air turned serious suddenly, and they both looked at each other with much less playful expressions. He wasn't really willing to delve further into this trust thing if it meant bringing up life and death, and he was pretty sure Ziva wasn't, either. So he simply took a healthy swig of his wine, and placed it back on the table with a nod.
''Yeah,'' he acknowledged eventually, ''So, in summary, I pretty much trust you with everything.''
She smiled again, and the atmosphere shifted back to the warm and fuzzy again. ''Except driving you around,'' she said with a brief raise of her eyebrow.
He couldn't help but laugh. ''Yeah. That's a bridge too far, Ziva.''
''Perhaps we can work on that.''
He scoffed as he shook his head. ''You work on your driving first, then we'll talk.''
She shrugged. ''I thought men liked women and fast cars,'' she said with a blank expression. ''I am the full parcel.''
''Package,'' he corrected, ''And, yes, we like women and fast cars, but not when the combination leads to a fatal accident.''
She pointed to herself. ''I am still here, aren't I?''
''You're lucky to be,'' he shot back, without really thinking.
Her face fell slightly, and he cursed himself for steering the Easy Banter Ship into dark and serious territory again. He moved to quickly diffuse the situation by keeping the conversation ticking over, but it appeared that Ziva had the same plan, and, as always, she was much quicker than him.
''What time are we meeting the Rota team tomorrow?'' she asked him for the second time that day.
Good, work talk. It wasn't as fun—or intimate—but it was far safer than where they were headed. ''Ten o'clock, by the big cathedral thing that they still haven't finished building,'' he informed her, though he was pretty sure she remembered. He wasn't sure why the name of Gaudi's last project kept escaping him.
''Sagrada Familia.''
That was the one. ''Sagrada Familia,'' he repeated to himself. ''I knew it was in there somewhere.''
''In where?''
Her confusion confused him for a second. ''My brain.''
''Well I would have thought there was plenty of room in there for it,'' she deadpanned.
Classic Ziva, but also predictable. ''Ouch.''
She chuckled at him, her eyes showing nothing but fondness. ''Aw,'' she said as she leaned forward and caressed the top of his hand again. The touch made his whole body tingle. ''That was mean. I am sorry.''
He turned his hand to gently nudge her fingers with his. ''Never apologise,'' he reminded her.
''I felt bad.''
He did his best Gibbs impersonation. ''It's a sign of weakness.''
She snorted. ''Well, then perhaps you are my biggest weakness, Tony.''
His smile fell, despite his best efforts, and he found himself speechless. They really couldn't stay away from the serious territory these days, could they? Well, that was if Ziva was even being serious. Her eyes suggested she was, but she didn't look like she regretted her words this time. Far from it. In fact, she held his gaze and practically signalled that she meant every word. He wasn't sure whether to feel flattered, excited or scared. It kind of felt like a mixture of the three. Now he just had to decide whether to play it cool or return the honesty.
He went for cool—well, as cool as he could be—and sent her a knowing smile. ''Is that your way of calling me a liability, Ziva?''
She took it as seriously as he meant it to be, and that was one hell of a relief.
''In the field?'' she asked after a chuckle.
''Anywhere,'' he clarified.
She clicked her tongue a few times as she looked at him and thought it over. ''You can be quite distracting,'' she began.
''I have that effect on most women.''
She rolled her eyes. ''But I would not say you are a liability.''
He sent her a mock frown. ''I think that's the nicest thing you've ever said to me.''
She snorted into her wine glass. ''Yes. And that is all you're getting.''
''I will happily take it,'' he assured her.
She smirked again and took another sip, and Tony briefly acknowledged the happiness he felt whenever he got to spend time with Ziva like this. When they could both relax, be themselves and let their hair down, so to speak. He always loved seeing her like this, in a happy and playful mood and clearly enjoying him as much as he was enjoying her. He loved watching her speak Spanish and enjoying the warmer climate and wearing summery, bright dresses.
Hell, maybe he just loved her.
He was snapped out of his thoughts when she nudged his shin with her foot. ''You are ogling me again, Tony,'' she told him lightly.
He hadn't realised he was, but he was far less uncomfortable about admitting it than he used to be. ''You got it right,'' he praised with a proud smile. ''And it only took you, what, nearly nine years?''
She rewarded him with a wink, but before she could shoot a witty remark back at him, the waiters arrived with their meal. It was rather large, but it looked and smelled delicious, Tony was just about ready to devour it. Whether he liked it or not was irrelevant by now, he was simply starving. How had he not really noticed the hunger until somebody literally waved food in his face? Usually it would take something incredible to distract him from an empty stomach.
Then he remembered who he was with. He looked up from the food to see her gracefully thanking the waiters in Spanish, and he decided incredible didn't quite cut it.
Only Ziva.
...
The food was delicious—what else did he expect from a meal straight out of Ziva's top ten list? —and the evening was perfect. They took a gentle stroll along the waterfront until fatigue got the better of them and they headed back to the apartment. He had almost forgotten that they'd only just flown in from the other side of the Atlantic, and the effects of such a leap were starting to weigh heavily on his eyes when he flopped down onto one of the couches. Ziva brushed her hand over his shoulder as she stepped past him and into the bedroom.
He felt completely stuffed, and little bit tipsy from the gorgeous wine they'd shared. ''I think I need to slip into a paella coma,'' he told her as he heard a suitcase unzip and a familiar chuckle.
''I know what you mean,'' she called back. ''But it was a nice meal, yes?''
He undid the first three buttons of his shirt and shuffled his butt around until he was fully comfortable. ''It was delicious,'' he agreed with a nod, ''but was it worth all the hype you created for it?''
''Were you not impressed?''
He knew she would probably jump to the defence of her precious paella—which was kind of why he threw the question out there in the first place—and, sure enough, she emerged in the doorway a few seconds later with a frown. At least, he assumed she was frowning, because his eyes weren't interested in her face, for once. She was wearing nothing but her bra and panties, and although he knew she was simply mid-changed and not trying to seduce him, he felt his blood run south before he could help himself. God, he was too tired for this.
She had clearly noticed his shameless ogling, if her smirk was anything to go by. ''Tony?''
''Hm?''
He lifted his eyes to hers, and her smile grew. ''Were you not impressed?'' she repeated slowly.
He'd kind of lost his train of thought. ''Um, yes.''
''Then it was worth the—what did you call it?'' she gestured her confusion with a frown and her right hand. ''Hype?''
His eyes roamed over her half-naked body again before he could stop them. ''Oh, yeah. It's worth it.''
Her eyes narrowed with what looked like suspicion, before she let it go and nodded with satisfaction. ''I am glad,'' she said as she disappeared back into the bedroom.
He almost groaned when she left his field of vision, but managed to blink his way out of his naughty and inappropriate day dream—even though it was technically night time—and tried to find something else to occupy his mind. He picked up the remote lying on the table in front of him and turned the TV on with it. All the screen showcased was static, on every channel, and he had to laugh to himself. He should have known this apartment was too good to be true. He heard his partner's distant voice again as he kept pointlessly flicking through the channels.
''What are you chuckling to yourself about?''
He scoffed inwardly. ''There's always something.''
Footsteps gradually grew louder as she glided across the room to the doorway again. ''There is always something what?'' she asked, clearly not following.
He gestured to the TV with the remote. ''No channels,'' he informed her helpfully.
Even from behind him, her confused expression was clear as day. ''Why does that mean there is always something?''
He turned the TV off again and leaned back on the couch to rest his eyes. ''Because,'' he began to explain on a yawn, ''there's always something wrong with the places we stay. No air conditioning, broken shower, noisy sex neighbours, only one bed, that sort of thing.'' Another yawn escaped him as he opened his eyes again to stare at the ceiling. ''I thought this place was perfect.''
''I am sorry for your loss,'' she drawled.
He shrugged it off. ''Every channel probably only has soccer on it, anyway.''
''I would not call it that over here,'' she warned, and he felt the couch dip beside him as she sat down. ''They will probably stab you with a beer bottle.''
He frowned at the ceiling. ''For saying soccer? I thought it was only the British who got mad about that.''
He felt her shrug against his shoulder. ''Football is practically a religion over here.''
''In Europe? Yeah, I noticed.''
She nodded. ''Yes, but Spain in particular.''
He grunted. ''I wonder who they pray to.''
Her chuckle never failed to warm his heart. ''It is probably Messi,'' she said.
''Well, I guess every religion has the potential to make things messy,'' he agreed with a tilt of his head, ''but I don't get the fuss over soccer.''
She turned her head to him and he could feel her smile. ''No, I mean they probably pray to Messi,'' she clarified. ''As in Lionel Messi, the soccer player.''
''Huh,'' he grunted, ''I've actually heard of that guy.''
''There was a rather large poster of him at the airport.''
He frowned to himself again. ''How do you achieve a God-like status by being good at kicking an inflated piece of leather?''
''I am not sure,'' she answers. ''He is quite good at it, though, from what I hear.''
He turned to look at her. ''So, the Spanish practice the religion of Soccer,'' he began to summarise.
''Futbol,'' she corrected.
He nodded. ''Right. And the God of this sport-themed religion is a guy called Messi.''
''Yes,'' she confirmed, ''In this part of the country, anyway.''
He sent her a brief look of affection. ''You never fail to educate me in the ways of foreign cultures, Zee-vah.''
''Someone has to,'' she deadpanned.
He narrowed his eyes at her. ''I'm going to try not to take offence.''
The sound of Ziva's responding chuckle made his stomach flutter, and he took some time to acknowledge what she was wearing since her swift wardrobe change. There wasn't much to it, really. She wasn't mostly naked anymore—he wasn't sure if he felt relieved or disappointed about that—but her legs were still on show. He didn't let his gaze linger there for too long, though, for the sake of his mental and physical health. Instead, he focused on the Ohio state t-shirt she was wearing. It was too big for her, but that didn't stop her completely owning the domestic 'girlfriend look'.
He swallowed as he felt his stomach flip. ''Comfortable?'' he asked her.
Her eyes widened slightly before she looked down at the shirt and pinched the bottom of it. ''I hope you do not mind,'' she said with a hint of anxiety. ''I can wear my own if you want.''
He'd heard that offer more times than he could count, because they had this conversation just about every time they travelled together. ''You know I don't mind, Ziva,'' he assured her with a smile he hoped would relax her again.
Her features softened again as she visibly let go of any unsure feelings. ''I love this shirt,'' she said quietly.
''I know.''
It was true, he did know. He loved the shirt, too, but it looked so much better on her. It was always the first thing he packed, just because he knew she would look for it at some point. And you could accuse him of having a caveman-like possessiveness over his partner—who technically wasn't anything more—but he always adored the sight of her wearing it during the quieter, more intimate times of the evening. There was something distinctly domestic about it, and he had been surprised by how much he welcomed the feeling when he first had it. Nowadays, he was so used to it that it barely registered. Right here, though, in this romantic city thousands of miles away from the eyes of scrutiny, he felt a weight on his chest he couldn't ignore. He loved what he and Ziva already had, but he couldn't help but imagine what they could have.
He longed for it.
She looked like she was his. He wanted her to be his.
But she wasn't.
Was it time to try and change that?
''You are tired, Tony.''
He hadn't realised he'd been staring at her for the past… god knew how long, but it was too late to care about that. ''Yeah,'' he said brokenly, before clearing his throat. ''Yeah, well, you know me. Long flights are— '' he cut himself off to let out a heavy yawn, ''—getting harder to deal with in my advancing years.''
Ziva raised a warning eyebrow at him. ''Advancing years?'' she repeated. ''Oh, Tony, please don't turn into one of those people who complain about ageing all the time.'' Her pleading made him frown. ''You are not that old.''
He sniffed, and his mouth twitched slightly, but he avoided the smile threatening to surface. ''I never said old,'' he argued.
Her eyes narrowed for a split second. ''You implied it.''
''I imply a lot of things,'' he shrugged, ''But I don't always mean to.''
She let out a small hmph in apparent disagreement. ''Oh, please.''
He half-smiled, half-frowned at her. ''What? I talk a lot, it happens sometimes.''
''You do talk a lot,'' she agreed with a finger-wag in his direction, ''but your implications—about anything related to sex, insults, or your age—are deliberate. I am certain of that.''
He played being hurt and grabbed her finger. ''You think you know me so well,'' he accused.
''I do.''
He couldn't help but smile at how true that was, and it only increased his longing.
Courage wasn't ever a trait he needed when conversing with Ziva. Usually. But Tony, with his mind being influenced by tiredness and wine-induced tipsiness, was suddenly feeling brave. He leaned closer to Ziva, so close that he actually felt a wayward curl brush against his cheek. She didn't retreat—Ziva David never retreated—but he could see something shift in her eyes. They were like dark whirlpools trying to hypnotise him. A part of him acknowledged the way her hand had shifted so it was returning his grip, but the rest of him was already lost in her face.
''What do you think I'm implying,'' he said in a voice he barely recognised. It was quiet, soft, and seemed to make her breath catch, ''when I say that I really, really like my shirt on you?''
Her eyes flicked to his mouth and back, and he could tell that she was trying to judge whether or not he was being serious. He was. Deadly serious, in fact, but he wasn't going to use words to tell her that. He needed her to see it in his eyes. He needed her to just feel it, like he could feel her hesitation. He could tell when she'd made the decision because her gaze stopped shifting erratically in favour of holding firm. They were both lost in each other now, and a bomb could go off outside and Tony wouldn't have noticed.
When she does eventually answer, her voice is deeper, but no less confident. ''That depends.''
He ran his thumb over her knuckles. ''On what?''
The corner of her mouth lifted, but now she looked almost shy. ''On whether this is related to your age, sex or insulting someone.''
He smiled at her earlier words, but didn't let his focus waver. ''It's related to you. Plain and simple.''
Her gaze, again, flicked to his mouth and back. ''What about me?''
''Everything.''
She took a deep breath. ''In that case,'' she murmured, her face inching that tiniest bit closer, ''I think I like what you are implying.''
Well, it wasn't exactly a written invitation to kiss her, but it might as well have been. He let go of her hand to gently cup her cheek, and her eyes locked onto his mouth for much longer this time, so he closed the distance between them fully. The first touch was like an atom bomb. Something titanic exploded within him as his lips moved with hers, and the world shook as the chain reaction rippled through his veins. Ziva's quiet moan told him that this was having a similar impact on her. And, honestly, they could have been a million miles away from DC or right, smack-bang in the middle of it for all he cared, because she was home. He belonged here, with her, and it was an incredible feeling to finally know that for sure.
They would have to do some actual work over the next few days, which may well cause his mood and Spanish spirit to deteriorate, but he didn't mind. He liked Barcelona. He was feeling fairly confident that this trip would remain, all in all, a good one.
Ziva broke away from the kiss breathlessly, and he could see it in her eyes—he could just see—what she wanted. And she was on her feet and pulling him into the bedroom before he even had time to feel proud about being able to read her so well. Or for the fact that his courageous move had paid off, (and then some).
In his t-shirt, she looked like she was his. Now he was going to show her what it meant to truly be his.
Something tectonic had shifted in his life.
Yes, he definitely liked Barcelona.
Thoughts? I'm usually pretty happy with a piece as I'm writing it, but I can never be sure when it comes to upload time. Hope you liked it, though.