A/N: Okay. So unofficial hiatus born of everyone's worse nightmare: Computer viruses. Specifically computer viruses of the pornographic nature in which, yes I did say porn, websites dedicated to the distasteful partaking of such subjects happen to appear on my desktop all the while my security on my laptop goes bonkers. Let me tell you, my friends, not fun. And then, to top it all off, and I kid you not, when I go to use my mother's laptop, what happens? Yes, I contract another virus on that PC thus rendering it useless. It remains in the shop at this very moment. And what, do you ask, was the perpetrator for this subsequent crash? None other than more naked people. Therefore, due to the lack of access to both Internet and MicrosoftWord, my continuation and development of my stories had been momentarily stalled. Thankfully, GeekSquad –thank God for GeekSquad- was able to save my beloved laptop and I am now back and fully functioning with increased computer safety practices (NEVER click on suspicious pop-ups –even if you only want to 'x' out of them) and the show may continue to go on. That being said, Our Forever is still in motion, it's just taking me awhile to gather my bearings and the next chapter should be up midweek. Enough of my rambling and on with the piece, much love, keep the peace, and if you happen to be into hinky web practices (i.e. creating destructive spyware) please stop –or at least make it so that cute pics of baby bunnies pop-up on my desktop in lieu of the more *ahem* risqué images. Kit.
DISCLAIMER: GeekSquad is the absolute best.
Spoilers: Truth Or Consequences; Jetlag; Designated Target; Double Identity
Partner (part-ner) noun: 1.) one that shares 2) a.) one associated with another especially in an action b.) either of two persons who dance together c.) one of two or more persons who play together in a game against an opposing side d.) a person with whom one shares an intimate relationship
They move in tandem, perfect synchronization. She toes open the jarred door with the tip of her boot, stepping silently into the house, Berretta raised, swinging to the left. And he enters in behind her, SIG loaded and ready, hand steady as he turns right, mimicking her movements without watching her. They clear the house, always conscious of their counterpart, never accidently mistaking the other for an intruder.
They speak with eyes and the occasional hand signal, reading tensing of shoulders as excuse for alertness, sudden freezing as indication of something amiss.
A five year partnership and a sixth sense.
In the confines of yellow tape, a dance of sorts is engaged. A piece of paper is perching idly in the grass, out of place though not entirely suspicious, and he makes to collect it at the exact moment she decides to reach for an evidence bag. She sidesteps around him, snatching up double what she sought, proffering an open bag to him without a word as he straightens up with the random scrape of litter.
Minutes later and boot prints are pointed out, she automatically reaching for the camera as he grabs a marker and a scale.
The pair process the reminder of the scene in similar fashion, little communication of individual intentions yet mutual understanding in regards to what needs to be done. They carry on around each other with ease born of repetition and familiarity, the ability to seemingly mind read and simple knowledge of habitual patterns, a well oiled machine, a flawless balance.
NCIS most efficient, albeit unorthodox, partnership to date.
"Oh my-" soft lips silence sated utterances and her chuckles are muffled against his mouth.
"Tony," and it's a purr, sweet and thick, his name on her tongue. His fingers brush back an errant lock of hair, tucking it skillfully behind her ear as her breath fans across his neck. She's pressed up against his side, her head pillowed on his chest her left hand intertwined with his right, their tangled fingers resting over his stomach. His free hand traces shapeless images up and down her arm and the gooseflesh that erupts in the wake of his ministrations does not go unnoticed.
They stay quiet, lying together in the familiar setting of her bedroom, all wound up beneath sheets that smell of her and him and them collectively. And then suddenly something dawns on him, clicking into place perfectly in his mind.
"I get it. It's you," he says softly, his voice heavy with a mix of awe and significance and sometimes he can be an idiot.
Her eyelashes brush his skin as she blinks, inquiring amusedly, "What's me?"
"Pah." And it sounds more like an exhalation that a statement.
"Pah," she repeats dubiously, twisting around to meet his eyes, brown touching green.
He can scarcely believe he'd never realized it before.
"Pah, Ziva. I zing, you zang. I know to bob when you weave, rock and roll. You go left, I go right. Pah."
"We are opposites," she simplifies.
And he wonders why opposites sound so . . . . negative.
She senses his hesitant reception and recalling the common aphorism, says, "Opposites attract, yes?" And she while she is aware that her integration of English colloquialisms is often evasive despite her efforts, she knows she got that one right.
"It's not a bad thing," he amends, suddenly shifting so that her head slips back onto the mattress as he comes to hover over her, studying her. "We're complimentary."
"Yin and yang. A natural balance." And that sounds much better.
"Oh, it's natural all right," and he cannot help himself when he ducks his head down, capturing her lips with his. Sometime later, maybe minutes, maybe hours, and they're back laying side-by-side, her head resting on his chest.
"Today reminded me of the Zuri case from two-three years ago," she confesses, having mused over the similarities the majority of the day.
"The soul-mates," he says in recognition, fingertips ghosting up and down her bare back. And she is mildly impressed and rather shocked that he remembered. In actuality, the similarities have, too, been the subject of his own contemplation.
She licks her lips, stealing herself before asking with feigned indifference, "Do you think-"
And he interrupts her because he can read her mind –or, at least, is listening to her eyes, "No. I still don't believe in soul-mates." Yin and yang, yes. Pah, yes. Soul-mates, there is no such thing. "We aren't soul-mates, Ziva. Because Thomas and Sayda were soul-mates. Leah and John Mayne were soul-mates. Look at how they ended up." And his logic is, actually, flawless.
"Nora and Daniel," she murmurs.
"Exactly."
She remains quiet for a while and he listens to her breathe, marveling at her warmth and the solidness of her beside him. She can hear his pulse beneath her ear, feel his breath woosh in and out of his lungs. He's still making intricate designs on her lower back, his calloused fingers soothing and stimulating. Eventually she speaks, clarifying his explanation with her extrapolated conjecture, "You love me more than that."
And he smiles over her head, replying, "You are the pah." And his agreement is conveyed without explicit affirmation, but she understands despite the lack of spoken word.
She draws herself up slightly, maneuvering so she can see his face. A quick smirk is bestowed to him before she drops a kiss onto the hot skin of his chest, just above his heart. And his arms come up to encircle her petite form, wrap her in a safe embrace that promises comfort and protection and good things.
It surely took them long enough to get it.