Author's Note: These are all unconnected (unless otherwise stated) and have nothing in common except a Tony/Ziva relationship.
Disclaimer: Not mine - not now, not ever.
Spoilers: None.
Carrying Your Love With Me – George Strait
Travel has always been a part of his job – a big part; in fact, it is one of his favorite parts of the job (barring his months spent as agent afloat). He enjoys seeing the world, and it is an added bonus that he doesn't have to do it on his dime. He's earned the reputation over the years as being the first to volunteer for these assignments, so he should not have been surprised that he was tasked for this one.
His enjoyment of travel isn't what's changed: it's his reason for wanting to stay home. It's knowing that he's here, when she's not; knowing that he should be there with her, instead of in this hotel room with Tim.
Nothing against McGeek.
He wonders when he's become so attached, thinks it probably happened a while ago and he's only just now letting himself realize it. Only recently has he finally reached the point where he's ready to admit it all, to finally open himself up again – completely. He's come a long way, he knows, but he attributes most of it to her: he's ready because of her, ready for her, ready with her. It's him and it's her and it's them, and this time he really thinks it will work because it's them and he wants it.
He wants it, and so does she.
He waits until Tim passes out on the bed closest to the bathroom and then lets himself quietly out of the room. Even at eight thirty on a Tuesday night, New York is bustling with activity. He tries not to think about what they would be doing if she were here with him: going to dinner at a fancy restaurant, wandering around Times Square, or maybe just rolling around in the hotel bed …
She answers on the third ring, her voice velvety and rich. "Tony."
"Ever seen a show on Broadway, Zee-vah?" He can't resist adding that little snap to her name.
"Thinking of taking McGee to a play?"
"Tried; he kept complaining how stage actors do everything 'too big'."
Her chuckle drifts down to him across the line. He loves that sound.
"I was thinking you might like it, actually."
"Another time, yes?"
"Yeah." He's still a little bummed, runs a hand through his hair and resigns himself to being here without her.
"Where is McGee?"
"Asleep, like you should be." He does not understand how she can operate on so little sleep; he gets grumpy when he doesn't get his beauty sleep.
"It is not that late, Tony."
He is much more adept now at reading between the lines, and he picks up on her meaning immediately and with ease, because it is the same for him: they have become so accustomed to sharing a bed that now, on the few occasions that they do not sleep together, they find sleep hard to come by. Circumstances permitting, they often spend these nights just as they are now: phones pressed to their respective ears, not necessarily always speaking, but always connected, always sharing the silence.
At least, this is how they are when they are alone, and don't have to pretend otherwise. This is how they are when no one is around, when they don't have to be wary of getting caught.
He hates having to pretend that there is nothing between them; hates leaving one of their apartments at different times to make sure they don't arrive together too often and raise suspicion.
"We can't keep this up, Ziva," He says quietly, "It's been four months."
"I know. We will get clean soon."
"Come clean," He corrects her.
This is his favorite time of day.