I always forget I wrote this, but reading it again…it's really want I needed right now. Possibility. Anyway, here's a New Year's story from circa mid-S10. :)
It is after midnight, and for whatever reason, they decide to share a cab.
Actually, it is Ziva's decision; she makes it hastily.
Maybe because they leave Abby's raging New Year's Eve party at the same time. Maybe because her partner is far more intoxicated than her—she'd nursed three drinks the whole night—and she knows his apartment will be the first stop, so that way she can ensure he gets home safely. Or maybe…
Maybe there is no reason. This is just where they are: a little less inhibited with their care for each other. The open-book us, Tony had dubbed them recently. All she knows is that last year, she would have gladly maneuvered the Very Special Agent into his own taxi.
Now, she gets in with him.
The cab is stuffy with the heat blasting. Through the windshield, she detects stark-white flakes swirling in the black sky, ones she didn't notice on the short walk from Abby's apartment to the curb.
"Where to?" the driver asks, and she tells him both addresses. As she predicted, he chooses Tony's as the first destination.
Before they are down the block, Ziva is regretting her generosity, and nearly asks for the vehicle to stop so she can get out and walk halfway across the city in cold and snow instead.
And it is all Tony's fault.
From across the backseat, his leg falls to the side, bumping into her stocking-covered knee. "Sorry," he slurs with a chuckle and swings the limb back, only to have it fall again a second later, like a door on a loose hinge.
It is a very irritating game that Ziva allows to happen exactly twice before exhaling a low groan and sliding into the middle seat, pinning his wayward limb in place with the press of her thigh against his own.
Cloudy hazel eyes roll towards her. "Thanks, Zeeee-va." Alcohol is pungent on another airy chuckle.
Sheen glistens on his forehead, and she can't say if one too many eggnog cocktails are heating him from the inside out or if the furnace of the backseat is burning him up in his wool coat. It is likely a potent combination of the two. She is warm as well, but to a manageable degree. If she'd only known three minutes earlier what her thoughtfulness would result in…
But this is Tony, her partner and her friend. He would do the same for her…though likely with the incentive of holding a favor over her head afterwards.
Ziva sighs, her deft fingers already unfastening the buttons of his jacket.
"You…are…going…to…owe me," she grunts out between yanks at the lapels and the knot of his scarf, unraveling it away from his neck and giving his body space to breathe. "There, that is better, yes?"
There is no immediate change after her efforts. It will take time for him to cool down.
His sudden laughter is an eruption in the small space—especially directed right into her ear. "We're getting too old for this stuff," he gasps through unattractive snorts.
This is how she recalls his drunken persona; she knew the (mostly) cooperative man she'd experienced up to that point could not last forever.
Wincing at the unchecked volume, she pushes his face forward with fingertips against his jaw and returns the favor into his ear. "Are you calling me old, DiNozzo?"
"No. Not old. Olll-dah."
Her eyes roll. "And you say my English confuses you."
"Don't worry." Tony fumbles…once, twice, to reach for her hand where it rests literally inches away on her knee. She is surprised when he doesn't grab her, instead patting the top of her hand in a way he probably thinks is reassuring, but is really just random slapping. "You might be old, but you're still hot…to me, at least."
Ziva has no opportunity to react before his face lights up; they pass under a streetlamp, the glare illuminating Tony's dreamy—and still sweaty—face.
"Hey, I just called you hot."
"Yes, you did," she indulges her very far gone friend.
Tony titters, lowering his voice to a whisper, as if telling a secret. "And you didn't punch me."
"Only because you are drunk and do not know what you are saying," Ziva whispers back, tossing him a wink. He won't remember this entire conversation in the morning.
As Tony shifts slightly and leans his shoulder into hers, the warmth between them intensifies and she is reminded that morning is hours away. It is only just after midnight, and she wonders again what persuaded her to share a cab with him.
Every ounce of alcoholic beverage he'd consumed that night is on his breath as his head tilts downward. She realizes his lips are closer to hers than they should be at the same time she remembers three drinks—and no food since a very distant and very light dinner—are in her system as well. Instinctively, her shoulders press back into the cracked leather seating.
"You are drunk," she says, reiterating the fact for good measure.
His pliable lips stretch sideways in a silly smile that taps into the pocket of affection she's long had for his sweet, playful side. "You're drunk," he accuses with a scrunch of his nose.
He is half right, and it's so hot in the backseat, and she knows she should pull away, or push him away, backhand some sense into him even, but something in a momentary flash of sobriety over his expression keeps her from moving at all.
"And…I know what I'm saying," he states adamantly and in the most lucid tone she's heard from him in hours. "I always mean it...with you."
Hadn't he meant it earlier, too? When they were both clear-eyed; before the night got away from them.
X
"Well, if you don't find someone by midnight—"
She barked a laugh. "Don't you say it."
"Why not? 'Cause I'd suffer through kissing you," he dared, a teasing half-smile dancing around his mouth. "Then you could punch me in the arm—two firsts of the New Year, one guy. Can't beat that deal."
X
Ziva is surprised how much relief she feels as the cab jerks toward the curb, slowing and slowing to a stop.
"Time to go," she informs her companion, putting much-needed distance between them as she reaches for the door handle. Stepping out of the cab is as much to let Tony free as it is to afford herself a blast of the freezing winter air. Her lungs fill with it on an inhale, her overheated body practically sagging with the reprieve.
Tony sways on his feet, taking baby-steps toward the door to his apartment building. He halts halfway, and she recognizes it: the fresh air is having a similar effect on him as it did her.
"Hey, let's go," the driver calls from inside the vehicle.
"Can you wait until I get him upstairs?"
He puzzles at her. "It's New Year's Eve. You're not the only—"
"Fine," Ziva cuts him off, paying the accumulated fare with a credit card. She is beyond rationalizing her decisions. It is instinct at this point; Gibbs would call it gut.
And her gut says stay.
The glowing taillights of the cab disappear around the corner, and the partners are left standing together on the snow-dusted sidewalk, the flaming hue of Tony's cheeks improving by the second. The night is quiet; she expected more boast from the inhabitants of the nation's capital. It leaves space for another memory.
X
"Still no takers?"
"I have not exactly made it my mission tonight, Tony," she replied, noting his watery eyes and easy smile. "You are enjoying yourself, I see."
He took a sip of his cocktail and nodded emphatically over the rim, swallowing hard. "My offer stands, Sweet Cheeks."
X
"Come along," she tells him when her toes begin to numb in her low heels. With her arm looped through his, they could almost be mistaken for a couple returning home from the evening's festivities. Almost.
Tony pulls away from her as they enter the elevator. Her ears are impervious to his drunken ramblings on the ride up, and once they arrive at the correct floor, she is preoccupied with fishing in his coat pockets for the keys.
"Looking for this," he mumbles, passing the desired item to her with what his addled brain believes is a saucy look.
She pats his (thankfully) cool cheek in acknowledgement and unlocks the door. They are no more than a few steps inside, the light from the hallway guiding them into the dark apartment, when his hand lands on her hip and his lips on the strands of hair over her neck.
Intuitively, Ziva swivels around, grabbing his wrist and holding it out to the side. Her back hits the closest wall, but she is grateful for the stability.
"No, Tony." Her firm voice snaps his gaze to hers. Confusion clouds further his already hazy grasp on reality. She cannot blame him.
Last time, he received a different response.
X
"10!...9!...8!..."
Hands seized her waist from behind, but something stopped her from going into attack mode. That he'd find her, she had no doubt.
She spun to face him—and what a face it was. Though he was far from sober, she recognized the determined set of his chiseled jaw, his darkened eyes, the overall smolder. This was Tony, and it was not lost on her that they'd been a little less inhibited with their care for each other, lately.
"…4!...3!...2!"
There was a millisecond between the robotic dip of her chin—providing answer to offers made earlier in the evening—and his lips descending over hers. It was by no means a gentle meeting, their mouths heavy and open and lacking accuracy; his sloppy kisses snatched at her top lip, her jaw; his lips only closed over her skin to deliver a sharp suck or nip. But his strong hands were at her hip and in her hair, clutching her fast.
And to her own surprise, she matched every ravenous, weighted touch, pushing her tongue into his mouth and holding the back of his head steady and right where she wanted, the claws of her free hand biting into his side, sharing his goal of close, close, closer…
There was still cheering all around them when they parted, a mutual break for breath, and then their eyes locked, exchanging heady looks that had little to do with the alcohol flowing through their veins.
X
Now, a cab ride and two subsequent close calls later, Ziva curls off the wall and leans into him. Another whiff of his breath solidifies her choice to put off any further making out, but the words are out of her mouth before she knows what she will say.
"Not like this. Hm?"
A ghost of a smile curls up a corner of his mouth. "Hm," he parrots.
And she likes the feeling that zings within the negligible distance keeping them apart. It tastes like possibility.
Ziva steers his body around and nudges him forward without her. "As for tonight, we will get you into bed and you will sleep this off and…" A whoosh and flop resound behind her while she is shutting the door. "I suppose that will work as well," she grants his splay across the leather couch.
It is an abrupt end to a never-ending night.
She takes the liberty of removing his shoes and jacket, though his stubborn, unconscious limbs gnaw at her last nerve. In the kitchen, she rummages for a bucket, her cell pressed between her ear and shoulder; a new taxi will be there within twenty minutes, and the container she finds in a cupboard is placed on the ground beside his head. Hopefully, she will be gone by the time that portion of the early morning commences.
Before taking her leave, Ziva regards him passed out on the sofa one last time, her fingertips ruffling through his hair. This was why she got in the cab with him: curiosity. To see if what happened was a fluke. Only time—and interactions when they weren't both intoxicated—would make the final decision.
But even if the alcohol did its damage on his memory, she would not let him forget their actions that evening—and not solely to earn a favor in return. If the events of the first hour were any indication, it was bound to be a year of change and growth for her and her partner.
And there was nothing hasty about that.