A/N: My other submission from Ziva David Appreciation Week. Full-on Tiva this time.
Disclaimer: I own nothing.
i.
It happens before he can stop her. Who takes a bite out of someone else's egg burrito, anyway?
ii.
She returns to the car with intel on their suspect's morning routine—and coffee.
One of those for me?
They sip; she talks, and he watches her breath crystallize the windshield. It is barely November.
Got it, he says, both hands on the paper cup.
iii.
He claws the duvet away, unearthing a liaison officer as he's never seen her. Matted curls and watery gaze and glowing, rash-red cheeks and neck.
When's the last time you've eaten something, huh?
The chicken broth he brought sits, cooling, on the nightstand.
iv.
The grainy cell phone capture does no justice to the best meal he's had on the USS Ronald Reagan. An egg wrap, gooey with cheese. It reminds him of home. It reminds him...
Try stealing it now ;)
His thumb circles the send button.
v.
They are nearly alone in the diner, at midnight.
I've always taken you for a pancake girl, David.
She stacks waffle and blueberry onto her fork. There is much you do not know about me, DiNozzo.
And oh, how he missed her mysterious smiles.
vi.
They are alone in the bullpen, at midnight.
No, I cannot tonight, I—
Can't imagine you're doing something else at this—
What is that thing with the drizzle…
Rain check. Sure.
vii.
They starve her and she gorges on memories of her Ima's fried Matzo brei and hot porridge during training and croissants from a café she adores in Paris and waffles at a diner late at night and a single bite of his eggs, scrambled, wrapped.
She licks her bleeding lips with sand, and dreams and dreams.
viii.
They order the whole menu, maybe. All their favorite diner has to offer. Toast, crepes, hash browns. Waffles and eggs, of course.
It's been awhile, he laughs, a strip of bacon dangling out of his mouth.
There is a hint of normal to her biscuit with honey.
ix.
He peeks the blinds open, coaxing the blushing sky into his living room—casting out the demons.
The couch cushions depress with his body, and she snatches at the blanket slipping off her shoulder.
He holds onto the mug of tea until her hands are steady; his grin dawns.
You made it, Ziva.
x.
And for you—sliding over half his flaky croissant. Break room bustle fades. Their knees graze under the table.
It is not Paris, but she knows no better company.
xi.
What is—?
You got a little… His tongue flicks out, capturing the wayward droplet of maple syrup on her jaw. Mm, you're sweet.
You were not done here, and she directs his mouth back over hers.
French toast in bed, forgone.
xii.
She shuffles close. Their arms touch, sealing. The hospital bed creaks with their combine weight.
You love me, yes?
The stitched-up bullet hole in his side aches monotonously. Are you really asking me that rig—
Then eat, please.
xiii.
Venice, calling from beyond the drapery. Details of a mission roost lightly in the back of his thoughts.
Aren't you hungry yet, he murmurs over the silken channels of skin and woven limbs.
Hm, afterwards.
After wh—
Her slender leg slips between him and the sheets and years on he'll remember the city as the spice of his wife's laughter against his chest.
xiv.
There is a lapse and the water swirls the sick away.
She sits back on the tile, spent and ruddy-cheeked. This is when you say you have misplaced your appetite, is it not?
He eases his grip on her hair and presses a kiss to her slick temple, not daring to argue with a pregnant ninja.
xv.
Their bedroom is darkened and hushed but for the suckling of a small mouth at her breast, and she thinks, he is missing everything.
xvi.
They share coffee from the cart on the Yard and a bench beneath swaying, clinging leaves. They sip; neither talks, much. It is barely October.
You sure this private consulting thing's for us?
She slides her hand over his, their fingers lacing knots. We will be all right, Tony.
Lasts and firsts, together.
xvii.
Their eyes lock across the busy kitchen. Shrieks and giggles and tiny, flour hand-prints on the counter. Dark-haired children all around and underfoot. A typical Sunday morning.
She offers him golden eggs stacked on her fork, and he chooses her mouth, the sustenance of love.
...