AN: Many many thanks to Jen, as always, for her awesome beta-ness. With our schedules this time, though, she was only able to give this a quick once-through. So any errors are still mine. :)

For those folks who are waiting for an update on "What Needed Saying" Please be patient. I've backed myself into a corner and feel 'stuck.' :-/ When I figure how to write out of it, I'll post an update. Sorry folks.

The gentle breeze off the nearby harbor ruffled her hair and offered enough coolness to take the edge off the summer sun.

When she had heard the last cod for the evening approach the runway and the squeal of the wheels against the tarmac hit her ears, she sighed and steeled her nerves. With a hand she willed not to shake, she slid her sunglasses up on her head, keeping her hair pushed back from her face.

She jiggled the keys in her hand, nervously, alternating between rattling them to hear the reassuring metal 'ting' in her fingers, and twirling the key-ring around her finger, the keys flashing against the sunlight as they spun.

The hanger exit door opened and she watched as he called his thanks over his shoulder to the pilot.

He looked exhausted. His shoulders radiated tension and had the distinct slump she knew came when he pushed himself far past the limits he should.

Her eyes were expert at picking up the smallest inconsistencies in a target, a suspect… but she hated using that skill on her partner. It typically meant he was hurt. And when she saw the slight stiffness in his gait – both from his leg and his left arm – she felt her breath catch in her throat. She swallowed quickly and willed the worry to not appear on her face.

The look on his face when his eyes finally fell upon her and when his brain recognized her leaning against his car was one she hoped she wouldn't soon forget. It was a mix of pure relief, complete remorse, and a smidge of fear, all mixed with one expression she couldn't quite place.

"Hey," he said, approaching her cautiously.

She reached up and deftly removed the go-bag he had slung over his right shoulder and held hooked by a finger. "Hi," she replied as she took the bag from his grasp moving with efficient strides to place the bag into the trunk.

Too many questions swirled on the tip of his tongue for him to pick just one.

When she slid behind the wheel of his convertible, he swallowed and moved to the passenger seat, watching as she buckled in and adjusted the mirror.

"Ziva," he started. "I – uh - I know I promised, but-"

"But Vance sent you to Mexico," she said, interrupting him quickly as she pulled out of the parking lot and through the base, her driving more calm than Tony had ever experienced.

"Yeah. But that's not what I was going to say. How'd you know?"

"McGee found your name on the Cod manifest."

"He found it?"

"Yes. After I persuaded him to look."

He chuckled. "Did you torture him or just threaten death-by-paperclip?"

"Neither," she said, unable to keep the slight grin from her lips. She didn't elaborate.

"Hey," he started. "I was going to say 'I'm Sorry.'"

"I know," she replied. "However that is breaking one of Gibbs' rules."

"There's a couple of Gibbs' rules that I'd like to break," he muttered, gazing out the window as they drove through the Northern Virginia streets, towards the suburban house he had purchased a year ago.

"Do you need to go by Bethesda before I take you home?" she asked, regarding the interstate signs carefully.

Tony found that he wasn't shocked that she noticed he wasn't one hundred percent. She had the amazing ability to pick up on the slightest clues – and yet sometimes she had the amazing ability to be the most oblivious person.

"No. I just wrenched my knee."

"And your arm?"

Of course she noticed that, too. "I got stitches from the medic on the flight. I'll be fine."

She didn't reply. His eyes watched the muscles along her jaw clench and he saw her swallow hard. A quick glance to her hands saw her fingers whiten on the steering wheel.

"Zi-"

"If you say you'll be fine," she said interrupting him, her tone making it clear she had no intent to discuss it further.

She merged towards the interstate exit, her driving now more like the suicide-mission style he was accustomed to.

"I'll get it looked at tomorrow," he said softly, trying to appease her.

Ziva didn't reply, hanging a sharp right turn into the woodsy subdivision. It was an older neighborhood where the houses had character; they were built on large lots with plenty of trees but enough sun that the lawn was still a vibrant green. It was clearly the antithesis of what anyone would peg for Tony DiNozzo.

But she had been the least shocked out of the group when he had taken a week off early last year to move. McGee had been surprised by what he thought was a 'grown up' decision from the world's oldest fratboy. Abby had thought that the house was too "Leave it to Beaver" for Tony's taste – though she still had fun helping him decorate. Gibbs had said nothing, instead merely taking his toolbox and fixing the porch swing and the squeaky back door – the silence had been as close to approval as Tony could have hoped for.

Ziva, however, understood better than the others. She understood that it wasn't the soft housing market with good prices that had prompted Tony to buy. It was the need for roots, especially when the team was recovering from an impromptu separation by the hands of Vance. It was the need to take one step closer to growing up. It was the need to wash off Jenny's blood by starting part of his life fresh and ready to move forward.

And if truth be told, this was the same time she saw the change in him truly begin. They would always morn the loss of Jenny, but at least it had prompted Tony to take strides to becoming the man he was intended to be, instead of the perpetual fratboy.

She had carried furniture and boxes along with the rest of the team. And she had helped organize his garage, careful to leave room for his 'baby' – the convertible mustang she was currently piloting towards the house.

Tony alternated between regarding the quiet street he lived on and Ziva's tense face. He racked his brain for the words that would make that small wrinkle between her eyes disappear.

At a loss, he gazed out the window as the car slowed towards his house. Her car was parked in front of his house and Tony surprised at how the domesticity of that didn't send a wave of panic into him.

She carefully pulled into the driveway and killed the engine, careful to set the parking break the way she knew he preferred.

He watched her hands move along the gear shift and she seemed so right at home in his world.

Ziva slid from the driver's seat and waited until he had pulled himself from his side of the car. She tossed the keys his way the minute she knew he was prepared to catch them.

His fingers curled around the hard metal and he watched as she turned on her heel and headed towards her own vehicle, her backpack slung over her shoulder.

"Ziva!" He called, moving after her, his knee protesting loudly when he tried to jog a few steps to catch up with her. "Hey! Walking-wounded here! Cut a guy a break!"

"Give you a break?" she gritted out through her teeth. "What do you think I was doing at the hangar, if it wasn't giving you a break?"

He hobbled up next to her, muttering a tight 'ow' when he put his weight on his leg. "I don't know what you were doing," he said honestly. "But I can't say that I wasn't happy to see you. In fact, that's an understatement."

She stared at him, her eyes hard. "You promised," she finally breathed, her voice barely a whisper.

"I know," he said.

"You promised!" she said again, this time harder. Fiercer. Her hand swung out, hitting him hard on his left bi-cep in a very feminine expression of frustration and anger.

He cried out and hissed, hobbling slightly against his wrenched knee and his body's undeniable desire to shift as far away from the searing pain in his shoulder as possible.

Ziva's hand flew up and covered her mouth. In an incredibly rare moment where the fierce mask of control slipped away, she had done more damage than she had intended.

"Tony, I-" she bit off any more words before quickly reaching out and steadying his frame. She moved and ducked under his good shoulder to help him get his balance.

"Sitting down would be good right now," he eeked out, leaning on her slightly as she helped him to the front door. She fumbled for the keys and managed to get the door unlocked and open without dropping her hold on him. He staggered towards the couch and practically fell into it as she closed the door behind them.

When she turned and saw the pained expression taking over his features, she almost failed to notice the red patch on his shirtsleeve.

I believe I understand why we were trained not to care for anyone. It makes life more difficult, she thought to herself as she quickly moved to the kitchen cabinet she knew held one of his first-aid kits. She pulled it down and made her way back to his side.

The buttons on his shirt would be nearly impossible for him to negotiate with one hand. When she began undoing the white buttons, she heard him let out a small chuckle. "Ya know, whenever you undress me in my fantasies there's never this much pain," he said. He dropped his eye to his searing shoulder. "Or this much blood."

She looked up and briefly met his eyes. "You have very tame fantasies," she said simply, seeing the small sparkle in his eye as he processed her retort.

Ziva slid the shirt back off his shoulders, careful of the now visible bandage that had been hidden under his shirtsleeve.

She peeled at it as gently as she could, the previously dried blood sticking to his skin and making him hiss as she pulled the wet gauze back. "I know. I know," she murmured in sympathy at his wince.

And she did know. She couldn't count the number of bandages he and Gibbs and McGee had changed on the flight back from Somalia.

She quickly dabbed the wound with peroxide and made sure she hadn't popped a stitch – which she thankfully hadn't. She replaced the gauze pad with a fresh one before re-taping the pad to the skin as gently as possible.

"Bullet wound?"

He had spent the entire Florence Nightingale experience with his head tilted back, his eyes focused on the ceiling. And he certainly didn't move when he replied. "It just grazed me. Flesh wound."

"I should be thankful for that?" she asked, trying to keep the bark out of her tone. "Thankful that you are off god knows where getting shot at?"

"You think I wanted to troop off to Mexico and get shot at and blow my knee out again?" he asked, failing to keep the frustration out of his voice. "Trust me, Ziva, that it was NOT exactly how I wanted to spend my Friday! I wanted to spend my Friday with YOU not Mike Franks. Let me tell ya, sweetcheeks, he's a poor substitute!"

"You could have called!" she snapped at him.

They both stilled and stared at each other. It wasn't so long ago that they stood in Mexico and she said the same words. When life was entirely different. When they were entirely different.

Tony shifted and sat up, reaching towards her as far as he could without standing up. He thankfully found that his fingers were able to close on hers and he tugged at her until she relented and took a step closer.

"You're right," he acquiesced, looking up at her eyes, surprised to find them glistening. "I should have called."

She sighed and slipped her free hand into his hair, scratching his scalp ever so slightly with her fingernails. She watched his eyes flitter closed at the touch. "Are you ok?" she asked.

He nodded. "Some Advil and ice for the knee and I'll be fine by Monday."

They were silent for a moment and he twisted his wrist against hers, sliding his palm until their fingers lined up and he carefully laced them together.

"I can't do this anymore," he whispered, leaning his forehead forward until it rested on her stomach.

She stilled at his words and he felt her body tense.

"I can't make promises to you that I can't keep," he elaborated. "I can't keep fighting over stupid shit because I'm too scared to fight over the big stuff, Ziva. It's not worth it."

"I could lie to you and tell you that it wasn't important that you were not there yesterday," she whispered. "But I will not lie to you anymore."

A silent moment permeated the room. "What are we doing?" he asked her. "I don't know what this is."

"We are friends," she replied. He pulled his head away from her, but she kept her fingers in his hair, not letting him move far. "And partners."

"Yeah," he said, his tone slightly defeated.

She swallowed and stilled herself, the beat of silence heavy on them both. "Tony, every time I think there is more to us than merely friends and partners, there is a Jeanne or a Michael to throw a hink into the works."

"Kink," he corrected, his mouth twitching as he did so. The pattern of correcting her felt so right. "We keep putting our missions and orders in front of more important things," he said.

"It seems that way, yes."

"We should stop that," he said, tightening the grip on her fingers ever so slightly.

"Yes, we should," she agreed, returning his squeeze. "I think I would like to have more to life than just the next mission."

Tony nodded, grinning up at her. "I don't know about you, but I've got a lot to lose."

Ziva felt herself smile slightly at his implied compliment. "I –" she stumbled looking for the right words. "I would really like it if you called next time," she admitted.

"If I can, I will. That's a promise I can keep." He nodded. "I'd like it if you didn't keep me at arm's distance all the time."

"It is easier than getting hurt," she managed to admit, only looking rueful instead of indignant. "But I will try not to."

Tony sighed and offered a tentative smile her way. "So where does that leave us?"

She shrugged and looked away, breaking their eye contact. She felt his fingers tighten on hers.

Ironic. She's the trained assassin. She's fearless. But right now, I have to be the brave one. Tony's voice was gentle when he spoke. "You know, if you were any other woman, I'd take you to the ballet and some fancy restaurant in the city. But that's not you- that's not us. If I'm going to do this, I want it to be … real," he said, stuttering for the words in a very uncharacteristic way.

"Do what?"

He rolled his eyes. "You know, charm you, woo you, court you, whatever word you want to use."

She couldn't help but snicker.

"Dating's different," he continued. "Dating is for chicks you don't know. But I know you better than I know myself. And you are definitely not a chick."

"And those things mean that I do not get the ballet and the dinner?"

"Do you want that?"

She shook her head. "It is not necessary. But someday it may be a nice change of pace."

His brain flitted across her words. Someday. That offered hope for a future. She wasn't shooting him down.

She slipped her hand from his hair and deftly pulled her fingers from his grasp. Shouldering her bag, she turned over her shoulder: "Something with explosions, I think?"

Tony frowned at her non-sequitur.

She grinned coyly and pulled the door open. "Movie night - instead of the ballet. And I will cook, yes?"

He couldn't keep the million-dollar smile off his face. "Yeah."

They'd figure it out. That dynamic that wasn't partners, that wasn't just friends… they'd figure it out – and he was sure it was going to be amazing.