Not related to the finale. Still shellshocked by the whole 'Ziva not telling Tony they have a daughter' thing, as well as her supposed death, but I still managed to finish this. Hope you like it.
Sunday
They wake up on Sunday morning tangled in one another. It's unprecedented—at least, outside of undercover work—and his initial reaction is to panic slightly. They had clearly had too much to drink the night before. They had clearly not been thinking straight, either, given their bedroom activities after said drinking. They had crossed the line that was supposed to be invisible, but was always painted across the No-Mans Land between them, taunting him, suffocating him. They had broken an almost sacred rule. And it was physical this time, not just emotional. He could reach out and touch their misbehaviour. It was wrong.
And, yet…
There was a significant part of him that finds it right. Her skin on his. Her dishevelled hair. Her smell. None of it is an unwelcome intrusion. It feels like it all belongs in his apartment sanctuary as much as the DVD and Jazz collection. Her presence gives the whole place an air of peace and light.
If it wasn't for the headache and mild nausea, he thinks he might just be happy.
And so he lies with her, soaking her in and relaxing, as if they woke up together every morning. As if this was far more than a simple morning after. And, honestly, it had to be, right? He had been falling for her for as long as he could remember. Further and further he plummeted, gambling everything he had in hope that she would follow him down the rabbit hole. He thinks his hopes may just have come true, but still wonders if he'll ever truly stop falling.
She could label this whatever she wanted, but he'd never call it a mistake. He'd never call it wrong.
The peace and tranquillity of the moment is broken when she wakes. A muttered curse escapes her mouth—he's too hungover to guess what language it's in—and she holds a hand over her forehead as she squints at her surroundings. And when her head spins around to look down at him, he sees the same initial panic in her eyes that he had previously felt. But her gaze softens when she sees his open eyes. He still expects her to close herself off, though. He still expects her to get up and leave with barely a word spoken. Rightly or wrongly, fairly or unfairly, he still expects her to treat this as a mistake.
He's relieved, then, when she smiles and mumbles a sincere hello. Even more so when she stays at his side. In fact, they spend the entire day with each other, suffering together through the dark times of the hangover, and seemingly enjoying every minute of it— (each other's company, that is. Not the hangover.)
If the previous night turned out the be a drunken mistake, it was probably the best one of his life.
Monday
There is no headache when she wakes this time. But there is no Tony, either.
She arrives to work ahead of all her colleagues. Not exactly uncommon. She can't say the same about the butterflies that flutter in her stomach every time she hears the ding of the elevator. The silver doors open for the fourth time since her arrival, but the co-worker who steps out of it is not the one she'd spent most of the weekend with. She's not sure if she's relieved or disappointed.
''Good morning, McGee,'' she greets politely.
He sweeps by her desk, latte in hand and a smile upon his face. ''Morning, Ziva. You recovered from Saturday night?''
Panic sets in and her head shoots back up from her computer screen. Oh, so help her God, if Tony had blabbed about what they did for some kind of ego boost… Well, let's just say something sharp may well be embedded in his skull by the end of the day. Or even at the beginning of it, if he ever turns up.
''Things got a bit out of hand at the bar, huh?'' McGee continued.
There is no sign of anything suggestive in his tone, so she lets herself relax slightly. Not fully, though. ''It is a bit of a blur,'' she admits.
He smiles. ''I figured. You and Tony were still drinking when we left you.''
There's slight increase in her heartbeat at the mention of his name, but she returns her focus to her screen. ''Well,'' she begins as calmly and knowingly as she can, ''you know what he's like when he gets on a stroll.''
''Roll. When he gets on a roll.''
She tsks with a dismissive hand wave. ''When the tequila comes out, things have a tendency to get…out of hand, as you say.''
''Yeah. And did they?''
Her head shoots back up. ''Did they what?''
His smile is a little too teasing for her liking. ''Did things get out of hand?''
''We didn't get into any bar fights,'' a familiar voice cuts in. ''If that's what you're getting at.''
She is momentarily taken aback, and her eyes snap to the source of the voice as he struts in confidentially, looking as neat and tidy as ever. He'd opted for a simple, buttoned blue shirt to face the summer heat, and when he removes his shades he shoots both herself and McGee a smile in greeting. He's doing all sorts of weird and wonderful things to her heartbeat, and surely without knowing it. She isn't really sure why his appearance is having such an effect, but she doesn't worry too much because she kind of likes it.
''That was exactly what I was getting at,'' McGee conceded.
Her eyes find her partner's biceps as he removes his backpack, and she finds herself wishing she could be alone with him. Even for just a few minutes. But she snaps herself out of the overwhelming trance he'd unwillingly put her in when he speaks to McGee again.
''Are you saying we have a reputation for causing trouble, McLightweight?''
The younger man shows no hesitation. ''Yes.''
''I'm extremely shocked to hear that.''
She thinks she registers McGee's scoff, but her attention remains glued to Tony. The way his jaw moved as he spoke and smiled. The way his eyes sparkled with a hint of mischief. The way his large, strong hands tapped along the keyboard, perhaps a little clumsily, as he logged into his email. Her memories of Saturday night were blurry—as she'd told Tim a minute ago—but she could remember what it was like to kiss that jaw. To feel the pulse in his neck under her lips. To have those hands run all over her and—
''How about you, Ziva?''
His eyes are on her now, and she actually has to blink and clear her throat to bring herself back into the room. ''Hm?''
Oh, now there's far more than just mischief in those hazel eyes of his. Not to mention his smile. ''Were you aware that our friends and colleagues see us as some kind of drunken version of Bonnie and Clyde?''
She frowns. ''They think we rob banks?''
''I don't know if it's that bad. But, apparently, we do have a flair for violence.''
Her frown disappears as she shrugs. ''You do not have to drink with us, McGee,'' she says with a smirk. ''If you are afraid things will get a little…physical.'' She catches the way Tony's eyebrows shoot up just before she looks down at the safety of the report on her desk.
''You both have way too much pent up aggression,'' McGee tells them with a shake of his head. ''It all seems to come out shortly after the tequila does.''
''Don't point the finger at both of us, McGoo,'' Tony defends. ''Wonder Woman over there's usually the one to blame.''
She raises her head to give him a glare, receiving a wink in return. ''I have to work with some very annoying co-workers on a daily basis,'' she reminds him. ''It is hard not to have pent up aggression—as McGee put it—when that is the case.''
''You certainly have pent up something,'' Tony shoots back.
There is that half knowing, half teasing smirk she is so used to. It forces her to tilt her head and raise a single eyebrow at him. ''You certainly never seem to mind it when things get physical, Tony.''
She can tell he gets her reference by the slight shifting of his features. And, yes, they both know that they were talking about a completely different type of tension release than McGee, even if it had only occurred once. The fingers tapping along Tony's keyboard come to a sudden halt, and she can practically see his mind drift back to their post-bar activities.
''It can have its perks.''
Her own smile grows, but McGee speaks again before she can. ''I'm surprised you never video record it, Tony.''
She shares a sudden, and disgusted, look with her partner. It takes both of them a few seconds to remember that McGee was referring to bar fights and not sex, and she notices Tony trying his best to regain his composure and respond in a way he'd be expected to. He almost nails it when he shrugs and looks down at his desk.
''I've never been any good with a camera.''
''Well, you better learn quick, DiNozzo.''
Their boss' voice was like an electric shock shooting through all of them. They all sit bolt-upright as he glides across to his desk. ''We've got a crime scene to process,'' he elaborates, grabbing his gun and badge. ''Dead petty officer in Georgetown.''
And so it was business as usual. The rest of the day goes much like hundreds of other days before it. Her interactions with Tony are of a professional nature (for the most part). No opportunity arises for them to discuss anything other than the case—such as the fact that they'd slept with each other two nights before, for example—but she gets the general impression that neither of them were in any particular hurry to look for one.
For now, it looked like they'd maintain the status quo.
Tuesday
They learn that the victim had been having an affair at his place of work. It may well have led to his death, and it definitely led to a number of complications that had seemed to make the lovers' lives hell. Ziva tries not to draw parallels.
But, as they interview his colleagues on the matter, a rather noticeable theme becomes painfully apparent. Never a good idea to sleep with a team mate, they say. Should always keep it out of the office. Workplace intimacy only ever leads to irreversible spats.
The message—seemingly from the world as much as the interviewees—is abundantly clear. It's like a constant alarm sounding in the back of her mind. A warning, the timing of which seems almost supernaturally perfect.
Or is it badly timed? She can't quite decide.
Either way, she finds herself acting so indifferently towards Tony for the remainder of the day that she actually feels the guilt eroding her very soul. He notices. Of course he notices. And there are times throughout the day where she can visibly see him being pulled in all different directions by his thoughts and emotions.
Confusion. Hurt. Self-doubt. Worry. Concern. Maybe even anger. All of them pile on top of her like an avalanche.
When she lies in bed that night she tells herself that it's for the best. That it was necessary for both of their sakes. That they would hurt for a short time, maybe, but it would ultimately spare them from months—or even years—of the trouble they would have suffered from if they went down the alternate path.
Her most pessimistic side tells her that it was already too late, and that the damage had been done. The optimistic side was buried deep, but she could still hear it calling her a coward for not following her heart.
Wednesday
Her behaviour had gone beyond the point of confusing him. After spending most of the day wondering what the hell was going on, he finds himself truly angry for the first time. It had been years since he last remembered being this infuriated by her mood, and even though he has a small idea about her reasoning behind all this, it still doesn't seem fair or justified. So, when he approaches her in the break room, he's feeling just a tad more confrontational than usual. As she stirs her coffee, he conveniently forgets how much she hates being backed into a corner. He forgets how to be reasonable, too, apparently.
''What's going on?''
She spins around in surprise, and he sees that damn look on her face again before she speaks. It's kind of sad, but mostly just blank.
''What do you mean?''
He's right in front of her now. ''Did I say something wrong? Do something wrong? Piss you off one too many times?''
Her sigh is heavier than a freight train. ''Tony—''
''You've barely spoken to me for the last two days, Ziva,'' he bites out. ''You look at me like I'm some kind of stranger. You avoid me unless you have to speak to me about the case. Hell, I haven't even got a hello out of you for about thirty-six hours!''
For the first time that day, her face shows a hint of emotion. This time it's definitely sadness.
''I don't get it,'' he continued a little more quietly. ''You seemed fine with me on Monday morning—the whole of Monday, actually. You were fine with me the day before that, too. Even after we…'' He trails off when he sees her eyes drop to floor as she swallows, and that's when his hypothesis about the reason behind this was confirmed. It's like a punch to the gut. ''That's what this is all about, isn't it?''
Her eyes meet his, and he can tell he's right. It hurts more than he expected it to.
''We made a mistake, Tony.''
He can't believe what he's hearing, and yet he sort-of can. ''You don't really think that.''
She looks at him like it should be obvious. ''We were drunk.''
''Yeah,'' he nods, ''we were. But we've been drunk before—lots of times—and we've still never done that.'' Her eyes fall to the floor again. ''Ziva,'' he says softly, bringing them back to him. ''I think we both wanted it. Drink or no drink.''
A small part of him punches the air in triumph when her expression morphs for a split-second and tells him he's right about this, too. But she still shakes her head defiantly.
''It stopped us thinking about the consequences,'' she argues. ''It made us reckless.''
Now he's frustrated. He doesn't think he could ever fully understand how her mind works, but that's just one of many reasons why he loves—
Now's not the time to think like that.
''And what about the day after?'' he asks, and it's another victory when her breath catches. ''Were we still being reckless when we spent the whole day together? In my apartment, acting like what we'd done—what were still doing—was completely normal? Was it a mistake to you then?''
She hesitates, but her answer is honest. ''No.''
Honest and confusing, apparently. Not to mention heart-breaking.
''Then what the hell happened, Ziva?''
She swallows again. ''I don't want to do this now, Tony.''
''Too late.''
Her eyes close with another sigh. ''This is precisely why I made this decision.''
He blinks, confused. ''What decision?''
''I decided that rushing into…something would be a bad idea.''
Now his anger returned. Tenfold. ''I never said I wanted to rush into anything. We never even discussed it.''
She looks fleetingly guilty, but ploughs on stubbornly. ''It would be a bad idea,'' she repeats weakly.
''Why didn't you just talk to me about it?''
Her expression turns soft, and this time for more than a second. ''I did not want to hurt you.''
He can't stop the sarcastic scoff. ''Well, geez, Ziva,'' he almost yells, ''you did a great job with that one!''
Now her face crumbles. ''I—''
''There you guys are,'' Abby's voice calls from behind him, effectively cutting Ziva off.
And just like that, their argument was extinguished. But, like a house fire, Tony could tell the damage was long-lasting. They both take a second to straighten their postures and regain their composure. It's back to professional—albeit, a horribly agonising form of professional—by the time they look at their gothic friend. Abby's got that look on her face that says she's made a big breakthrough, and he tries his be excited about that. He fails.
''I need you guys in my lab,'' she tells them, ''Pronto.''
Tony and Ziva lock eyes for a brief moment, and he knows he's not imagining the tears at the corners of her eyes. They both give Abby a dutiful nod, though, and follow her after she spins back towards the elevators.
One case was solved: the case of Ziva. And now another one could well be wrapped up, too. Still, only the former takes priority for him. He had gotten to the bottom of it now, but it still feels like no progress had been made.
When he gets home in the evening, he cracks open a bottle of bourbon. As he refills his fourth glass, he finds himself simultaneously berating her attitude and longing for her.
One feeling is stronger than the other.
Thursday
As it happens, the case is indeed on the verge of being closed. Not unlike Tony's heart, in fact. He slams the door on any emotion, keeping it all bottled up as he did his duty. He knows it will only crush him a thousand times over when he gets home, but that's what his old friend Jack Daniel was for. Having possibly severed the most important relationship in his life, he decides—perhaps foolishly—that consuming alcohol was the only thing he could reliably do outside of work.
He doesn't need reminding that alcohol was how this whole thing started, though.
Every time he sees her face or hears her voice or smells her smell, he finds himself wanting to drink again. It's not healthy, but he wonders if his relationship with her ever had been. He wonders if they'll ever have any kind of relationship from here on out. The way they continue to treat each other throughout the day suggests not.
It doesn't take long for Gibbs to notice. Or, perhaps, he'd noticed days ago but had finally run out of patience. Either way, Tony can't find the energy to care. Even when the bossman stops the elevator mid-way through its descent. Even when his steely glare burns into his mind and soul relentlessly.
El Jefe's looking for answers. Tony honestly has none. The question Gibbs was silently asking was the same one he'd been asking himself for days.
What the hell's going on with you two?
He would need to write a damn essay to even try and answer that, so he shrugs dismissively instead. But that doesn't sit well with his leader. No. It seems to have him caught between irritation, anger and just plain disappointment. At least his list is shorter than Tony's.
Fix it.
If only he knew how.
It strikes him, though, that he hadn't even tried yet. He'd just rolled over and let her pessimistic, overly-rational way of thinking beat him. There had been no attempt at a calm, adult conversation. There had been no attempt at anything, really. They had been shutting each other out with such determination that it practically gave his whole body cramps. A bridge needed to be repaired, and he knows he will have to be the one to do it.
Or at least try.
So, when the case is officially closed, he approaches her desk. Her head lifts slightly at his presence, but her eyes never find him. The tension in her shoulders hurts his heart. It was only him, after all.
He speaks to her for the first time in forever. ''This isn't right.''
Her brow furrows. ''What isn't?''
''This,'' he repeats unhelpfully. ''Us. Whatever's happening right now.''
More confusion. ''You are talking to me right now.''
''We're not talking.''
Now her eyes do lift to his face. ''I am lost.''
''We haven't been talking,'' he elaborates. ''Not for days. And it's not right.''
Realisation dawns on her face for the first time, but she looks back down at her report. ''No,'' she agrees softly. ''It is not.''
''I think we need to start talking again.''
A sad smile pulls at her lips. ''What did you have in mind?''
''Anything,'' he says a little desperately. ''Everything.''
An amused gaze rises to meet him this time. ''You have always enjoyed talking about everything.''
It's probably the most Ziva thing she'd said to him for about three days. He almost collapses.
''But not always the important stuff.''
Her face softens again as she seems to get what he's saying. ''Tony,'' she sighs. ''I do not think now is a good time.''
Will it ever be a good time?
''I know,'' he concedes. ''I just wanted to let you know that whenever you want to talk—if you want to talk—then I'll be there to listen,'' he says reasonably. ''When it's a good time, of course. No rush. No pressure. Just a casual chit-chat between two partners about…stuff.''
A brief smile appears on her face, but he can see her hesitation.
''I know you probably want time to think it all over,'' he adds to reassure her. ''And that's fine. Just…'' He pauses for a second to let out a breath. ''Please don't continue to shut me out after you're done thinking.''
Her previously tense posture relaxes significantly, but it still feels like forever before she nods. ''Okay.''
The relief practically floors him. He had finally put some effort in—not much effort, but enough—and it may well pay off. No more can be said on the matter, though, before Abby and McGee come traipsing into the bullpen. The former is practically bouncing.
''Who's down for a repeat of Saturday night?'' she asks.
Tony glances down at Ziva again, and he's not surprised to see her tense posture back.
''I've got plans,'' McGee says as he starts to pack up his stuff.
Abby exaggerates her disappointment with a thumbs-down. ''Boo!''
Tony decides he's not in the humour for drinks anymore. ''I hate to echo McPartyPooper's statement, Abs, but I'm kind of busy, too.''
She gasps slightly in offense, before looking at Ziva. ''Girls night out?''
He can tell Ziva will lie to get out of it well before her mouth even opens. ''I have things to do tonight, Abby, I am sorry. Perhaps another time.''
''Tomorrow night, maybe?'' McGee offers.
They all depart with half-hearted promises to celebrate the closed case on Friday night. Tony manages not to touch a single bottle of liquor when he gets home—a fact for which he is quite proud of—and even manages to think about Ziva on a semi-regular basis without wanting to punch something. It feels good, if he's honest, and rather refreshing after the last two nights of agony. It feels hopeful. He had tried to re-build the bridge earlier, and he got the impression that she was willing to help with the heavy lifting.
Baby steps.
Friday
Ziva isn't sure whether it is too early or not. They weren't on call this weekend, including Friday, so she's well aware she might be disturbing Tony's lie-in. That isn't what gives her hesitation, though, as she steps off the elevator on his floor. In fact, she isn't actually certain what does make her feel it. Having spent a good chunk of the night 'thinking it over', she had come to an eventual decision about her partner. She expects—or at least hopes—that he'll approve of her decision, and therefore can't quite put a finger on why there's any hesitation present in her mind.
But it's definitely there.
Her stomach has tied itself into a million tight knots by the time she knocks on his door, and she gives brief consideration to turning back and fleeing the scene in the twenty seconds it takes for him to answer the door. But then he is there. Then he stands before her, all scruffy hair and sleepy eyes, and she finds herself glued to the spot. Clearly, she had woken him, and his presence simultaneously relaxes her and makes her more anxious.
''Hey,'' he greets softly.
''Good morning,'' she nods, hands clasped in front of her.
After a few seconds of silently staring at each other, she realises that he is expecting her to initiate the conversation, or, at the very least, explain why she is there. So she takes a deep, calming breath. ''You wanted to talk about…things,'' she reminds him.
He seems mildly surprised for a moment. ''At ten in the morning?''
She starts and points behind her. ''I can go, if you like, and can back another time.''
''No,'' he says, seemingly honestly. ''No, we can talk. Only if you're ready.''
''I am.''
This time, he nods. ''Okay. Come in.''
He steps aside for her, and she needs no further invitation to step into the apartment. She still hasn't been here much, but it feels warm and familiar and comfortable. She isn't sure how Tony feels, but she certainly feels like she belongs here. And, given the conversation they were about to have, that has to mean something.
Doesn't it?
She heads into the living room as Tony continues on to the bedroom. A few seconds later, she hears the tap running as he brushes his teeth. For some reason, it brings warm tingles to her stomach. She remains on her feet as her eyes skim over his bookshelf—which is mostly a DVD shelf—until a framed picture catches her eye. It is of her and Tony, and she isn't sure who took it because neither of them seemed to be aware it was happening at the time. They are both stood at the counter of a bar the team regularly go to. As per usual, they were standing very close to each other and holding gazes with a smile. She was practically leaning into him, in fact, and she is briefly taken aback by just how close and couple-y they looked sometimes.
Or, most of the time.
''I like that one.''
Tony's voice makes her jump slightly, causing her to realise how lost she was in the picture for the first time. She blinks her way out of it and turns her head to look at him. The tingle returns when she smells his cologne and sees his freshly tamed hair. She has to physically swallow before she can speak to him.
''I have not seen it before,'' she says, perhaps a little weakly.
He hears her loud and clear, though. ''Abby gave it to me a few days ago. It was from last Saturday, but you probably knew that.''
She hadn't realised, but she decides to skip right past that. ''And you thought it was worthy of being framed next to your special edition of Chinatown?''
He shrugged at her raised eyebrow. ''I told you before,'' he says a little shyly. ''I like it.''
She looks back down at the photo and finds herself smiling. ''You certainly look as though you're enjoying yourself,'' she tells him fondly. ''And it looks like you just said something inappropriate, if your eyes are anything to go by.''
He scoffs. ''That doesn't sound like me.''
She lets out a little hmph. ''You are right,'' she drawls. ''What am I thinking?''
''You've got that look on your face,'' he says suddenly.
She turns back to him, confused. ''I do not have a look.''
''Not now,'' he clarifies. ''In the picture.''
After further study, she has to agree that there is something in her expression. She can't quite say what it is, though. ''What do you mean that look?'' she asks him.
When she looks back up at him—has he leaned in closer to her? —she immediately finds her heart slamming at the look on his face. Goosebumps erupt all the way down her right side and she feels her tingles go further South. Talk about looks on faces. She had seen his before, too, but last time it led to them tumbling into bed together. And, if she was honest, she wouldn't object to that same outcome right now.
''It's the face you make when you're having naughty thoughts,'' Tony murmurs, right by her face.
She practically has to close her eyes against the onslaught of arousal. ''And you like it?'' she asks, her voice far more husky than she expected.
He raises a single eyebrow. ''Oh, yeah.''
She smirks slowly. ''I like your face when you're having naughty thoughts, too.''
Both eyebrows rise this time. ''I'm always having naughty thoughts.''
''Exactly.''
He seems momentarily taken aback by her words, but a smile returns to his face. ''Well, I'm touched,'' he says a little more seriously. ''But I'm guessing you didn't come over here to admire my photograph collection and look at my face.''
Just like that, her nerves from earlier are back. ''No,'' she concedes. ''But I suppose it would be hard to talk to you without looking at your face.''
He leans against the wall next the shelves and looks at her with a strange expression. ''Tell me what you're afraid of,'' he orders gently. When she sends him a frown, he elaborates. ''When it comes to me and you. You and me. Us.''
She catches on, and finds herself averting her gaze like a coward. ''I am not sure.''
He remains patient and understanding, something she is extremely thankful for. ''But you have a rough idea,'' he guesses—and correctly so.
She turns away to pace his carpet as she tries to explain herself. ''I am scared of change,'' she starts, but when she turns around and sees the look of hurt on his face, she backpedals. ''I do not mean that kind of change,'' she assures him as she gestures between them. ''I mean the changes it might bring about at work. I like what we have. I like how our team works. I like normal.''
He nods, telling her she was making some sense, at least. ''I get that. But why do you assume any change will be for the worse?''
She twists her mouth as she thinks about how to answer that. ''I don't. Well, I did,'' she corrects quickly. ''After what happened on Tuesday, I thought all the signs pointed towards it being a bad idea.''
''What, because of the case?''
The mild ridicule in his tone makes her feel a lot less sure of her words. ''I do not want things to get like that between us.''
Now he seems less patient. ''I don't think they will. Not if we take it slow, and really put the effort in.''
She nods. ''I agree. I have thought about where to go from here. And I think I would like to…try and see whether it works. To take things slowly, as you say. But…''
He pushes himself off the wall and approaches her. ''But what?''
She conjures up enough courage to hold his gaze. ''But we do not even know what it would be like in normal circumstances,'' she tries to explain. ''When we have not drunk too much in a bar beforehand. What if it doesn't feel right?''
He's right in front of her again. ''What if it does?''
The way he's looking at her certainly feels right. The fluttering in her stomach is exciting and nerve-wracking, but also very, very right. She swallows again, hard, as her eyes flick to his lips and back. ''There is only one way to find out, yes?''
''We need to collect more evidence,'' he suggests.
''That is what we do best.''
A small smile pulls at his mouth, and in the next second she feels his hand on her jaw and his thumb brushing her cheekbone. Her hand rests against his chest. When he leans down to kiss her, the tingles intensify to incomprehensible levels. It is short—too short—and when she reopens her eyes to look at him she can already feel her final doubts disappearing. That certainly didn't feel wrong.
''Hm,'' is all she can say—or, rather, not say. It elicits a raise of his eyebrow.
This time it's his eyes that flick to her lips. ''Inconclusive,'' he announces in a whisper, before pulling her in for another kiss. This one goes on for much longer than the last, and she feels him tunnel his hand through her hair as he deepens it. Suddenly, she completely forgets why she hasn't been doing this all week. Or ever since she met him, maybe.
The intensity of the kiss grows when her hands go around his neck and they stumble back until they hit the wall with a soft thud. Tony grunts when his back meets concrete, but he doesn't seem perturbed. Quite the opposite, in fact. His own hands roam down her back until they meet the hem of her shirt. Before his fingers roam any higher than her hips, however, he pulls back and looks down at her breathlessly. Panic takes a hold of her as she wonders whether he's having second thoughts—or third or fourth thoughts, in their case—as to whether this was right or not.
To her relief, he smiles. ''You've got that look on your face again.''
It takes her a few seconds to catch on, but she returns the smile when she does. She takes in his lustful look, his dark eyes and his mischievous smile. It turns her on more than she would ever care to admit. ''So do you,'' she returns.
He leans down to kiss along her jaw line towards her neck. ''You can't possibly tell me,'' he says quickly between kisses, ''that this feels wrong.''
She chuckles huskily, but not before she moans. ''It would feel better if we had a bed.''
He practically growls, and she pulls him towards the bedroom before he has a chance to argue—not that she thought he would, given the circumstances—and most of their clothes end up disappearing by the time they arrive at their destination.
This time, she could remember everything. The way she could make him completely lose himself. The way he could do exactly the same to her. The way that she feels truly happy and sated afterwards. The way that no work-related complications enter her mind even once. It is perfect, it was telling, and it is just so right.
Hours later, they lie in Tony's bed in a tangled mess. They are both sweaty and breathless and smell like sex. But it still feels right—especially when he turns to her with a full smile that makes her heart slam again.
''So much for taking it slow.''
She chuckles. ''I don't think either of us were talking about sex when we said that.''
He exhales heavily and looks up at the ceiling, smile still in place. ''I don't care what you say,'' he says, though with no hint of argument in his tone. ''That was not a mistake.''
She has to agree. ''No, it wasn't.''
''I think we've closed the case on whether this feels right or not.''
When she looks over at him, he's wearing a smile that melts her, and she feels immensely happy once again. ''I am quite pleased with the outcome.''
This time, his smile turns teasing. ''You certainly sounded pleased.'' His smile grows fonder at her responsive chuckle, but when he speaks again his voice sounds more serious. ''I kind of like how things turned out, too.''
She feels her gaze soften, and when she runs her fingers over his cheek affectionately she cannot stop the wave of love that washes over her. There is guilt there as well, however, and it is almost enough to make her cry. She remains resilient, though, and decides to go ahead and break another one of their boss's rules—there's a lot of that going around—and at least try to rectify the mistakes she'd made over the week. Her actions today had gone a long way to doing so, but it feels like words are needed just as much.
''I am so sorry, Tony.''
His eyes, previously closed as he smiled up at the ceiling, open once again and meet hers. He clearly heard the honesty and vulnerability in her tone, and now he must see it in her eyes. He still looks a little confused, though. ''For what?''
She cowers away from him by looking at her hand as she ran it over his chest. ''For the way I have treated you for most of this week.''
Understanding softens his gaze, and she can see that he wanted to hear that. ''It's ok,'' he forgives sincerely. ''I know why you were scared. I didn't really like the way you reacted to it, but I know you weren't deliberately trying to hurt me.''
''I never want that.'' She thinks it's essential that he knows it.
And he does, apparently. ''I know. Just promise me one thing, will you?''
''What?''
He takes in another heavy breath, and moves to grasp her hand. ''Promise me that whenever you get scared or unsure—if you ever get scared or unsure, about anything—you won't shut me out.'' More guilt gnaws into her at his gentle tone, but she feels none of the fight that he seems to be tip-toeing around. ''Things always work out much better when we actually talk about stuff. You know?''
She nods. ''I am sorry.'' She hopes her repeated apology doesn't seem too pathetic, but his smile tells her he doesn't mind.
''Stop doing that,'' he says quietly, shifting to a more teasing tone. Her heart-rate increases to a dangerous level when he leans over to brush his lips along hers. ''It's a sign of weakness.''
She lets out a small moan when he eventually gives her a deep kiss. ''You are my weakness, Tony.'' He rests his forehead against hers, and she cradles his face like it's her most prized and delicate possession.
''I can certainly make you weak at the knees,'' he teases.
She gives him a husky chuckle, and pecks his lips again. ''Prove it.''
And he does.
Oh, yes, he does. And she finds her mind drifting back to his apartment and his bedroom and him as she sits in the bar many hours later. She is present in only technical terms as Abby chats excitedly about a subject that completely goes over her head. McGee seems to be listening, and any casual observer might say the same of Tony. But she knows better. Maybe it's because his eyes keep flicking her way as she sits as close to him as possible without literally sitting in his lap. His hand remains on her thigh, but any touch shared between them remains subtle. Discretion, it seems, is the name of the proverbial game. Neither of them want to arouse too much suspicion.
But Ziva, for one, was definitely aroused.
His hand, his smell, his arms, his smile, his hair, his everything. It floods every vein in her body and makes her feel somewhat desperate for the social side of the night to come to a close, so she could get him home and devour him. Every time she looks at him she's reminded of how much she loves this change, and how stupid she had been to fear it. Whatever complications arose, no matter how many times they screwed up, she would fight for him. And Tony—her loyal, brave, sometimes infuriating, but mostly perfect Tony—would no doubt have the same attitude.
He turns to look at her, and in her light headedness is only partly caused by the alcohol when he smiles down at her. Clearly, she's been caught staring. Not even a single part of her can be bothered to care, though. She thinks she hears Abby say her name, but the way Tony squeezes her thigh makes her want to straddle his lap right there and then and get down to business. God, why weren't they alone?
''Ziva?''
This time she does hear Abby loud and clear, and turns to look at her Gothic friend. ''Hmm?''
Suddenly, Tony's breath fans against her neck as he speaks into her ear. It sends another tingly rush through her. ''I think it's your round, sweetcheeks.''
Abby smiles knowingly, but Ziva ignores it in favour of looking back at Tony again. ''Is that right?''
He gives her a heart-stopping wink, but it's McGee who speaks from the far side of the table. ''We're all dry over here.''
''Very well,'' she says lightly, before leaning right over Tony to retrieve her purse. She smiles when she hears him groan, and his hand goes to the small of her back momentarily. When she sits back up, she feels even hotter than before. ''What is everyone having?''
The men gesture to their empty pint glasses, suggesting they want another beer, but Abby gets to her feet with Ziva and butts in before any words can actually be said. ''I think it's time for the Tequila!''
McGee and Tony both groan. ''You've got to be kidding,'' the former says.
''It's too early for that,'' the latter adds.
''Shut up.'' Abby holds up a finger. ''We're all getting shots. No arguing.'' And she leaves no time for it before she spins to Ziva and clutches her arm between both of hers. ''Come on, Ziva. Let's show these girls how to drink.''
''Fine,'' Tony calls after them with mock reluctance. ''But, for the record, I am drinking my shots under heavy protest.''
Ziva shoots him a smile over her shoulder as Abby drags her over to the bar. When they arrive, Abby orders them all two shots each, and grins when she's sees Ziva's look of surprise. Apparently, someone was keen to get everyone drunk tonight.
''This is where the night really begins,'' Abby says.
Ziva frowns. ''I thought you have to be constantly worried about me and Tony causing trouble after we do shots. Why are you so excited?''
''That doesn't always happen. We only kid around about that''
She thinks back to all the times she's had to back Tony up in a fight, or—more commonly, in fact—he's had to back her up. ''Is it fun to watch us fight?''
Abby smiles as the barman loads up the tray with their shots. ''Sometimes. But I don't think it's fighting we've got to look out for tonight.''
Her knowing look makes Ziva frown again. She has an idea of what Abby is trying to say, but doesn't want to give anything away by assuming such. ''What do you mean?''
''You're all over each other.'' Before Ziva can defend herself or argue, Abby's holding up a hand to reassure her. ''Don't worry. I think it's adorable. And I'm just glad you're not arguing anymore.''
Her friend's apparent observational skills have Ziva almost speechless, and she isn't quite sure what part of her statement to address. ''We were not arguing, Abby.''
''It's not my business,'' Abby concedes with another raised hand. ''But it's just so great to see Tony happy. And it's great to see you happy. And you're both happy when the other one's happy, so I'm just so happy, you know?''
Ziva just about keeps up, but isn't sure what to say. ''Thank you(?)'' she tries.
''Just promise me you'll keep making each other happy.''
Her eyebrows shoot up, but she tries not to act too surprised. ''Where did all this come from?''
''Just promise,'' Abby insists.
Ziva feels quite emotional all of a sudden. Because, yes, her happiness is more or less fully dependant on Tony's—especially now that they were more than just best friends—and she is certainly hoping to make him happy every day for as long as she possibly can. However, it feels kind of wrong to be making that pledge to anyone other than him. She still nods, though, and she still finds herself making it.
''I will try,'' she says a little thickly. ''We both will.''
Abby is practically beaming. ''I'll drink to that.''
And just like that, Ziva is laughing. And they all end up having plenty more shots before the night is out. It's her apartment, this time, that herself and Tony end up stumbling into at the end of it. It's her bed that they end up making love on for hours and hours until they both succumb to physical exhaustion. There is laughing and talking and teasing and a general sense of comfort in each other's presence that has been there for years. The main difference is the intimacy. It still feels right, and it still feels like they wasted too much time not doing this over the course of their partnership. But she is still happy.
The fears and doubts she'd been having over this for most of the week seemed like distant memories now. As he holds her under the sheets, she thinks she's never felt so peaceful.
They are happy. They could make this last.
Saturday
They spend the whole day together again—except for a few hours, in which Tony goes home to change and freshen up. She does the same, before turning up at his place in the evening with his favourite take-out. It's crazy, really, but he swears he missed her in the short time. He makes sure to tell her that with a warm, deep kiss after he opens the door. She smiles and tells him the food is getting cold.
They sit on his couch after they've finished, and the classic movie holds their attention sufficiently enough as they indulge in comfortable silence. After a while, her head drops to his shoulder as they snuggle into each other, and he finds himself smiling as she lets out a soft hum. Her smell overwhelms him with happiness, and he wonders why the hell they hadn't started this sooner. So far, the pay-off was worth the risk. If there even was any risk in the first place. He thinks they might have been imagining it.
''Abby spoke to me at the bar last night,'' Ziva says after a minute.
He brushes a kiss to her hair. ''Not exactly an uncommon occurrence.''
She smiles briefly. ''About you and me.''
That makes him slightly more interested. ''Oh yeah?''
''I think she knows.''
She doesn't sound like she cares, and he is only slightly surprised when he realises he doesn't care, either. ''That could make us the number one topic of office gossip.''
She shakes her head. ''I don't think she will tell anyone. She just wanted to make sure we weren't just screwing around.'' He hadn't really noticed her hand running up and down his chest at first, but now it brings him even more comfort. ''I ensured her we were not.''
He frowns. ''She really asked you that?''
''Not in those exact words, but I think that was the message.'' Her hand continued. Up and down, up and down. ''She just hopes we can make each other happy.''
His face softens. ''I think we can.''
''Me too.''
He feels his chest warm suddenly. ''You already make me happy,'' he confesses, forcing her to look up at him openly. ''You always have, for the most part.''
She smiles with a hint of self-awareness. ''Except when I try to ignore you and treat you like crap.''
In a way, he's pleased that she is aware of how much that hurts him, but he has a strong feeling she would try her best to stop doing that in the future. ''Well, we can work on that,'' he shrugs. ''Things are different now, right?''
She smiles again and stretches up to kiss him. ''Yes.''
''Good different?''
She kisses him and again, and this time she deepens it as the intensity builds. She swings her leg over his thighs and moves to straddle his lap and take his face between her hands. ''Perfect different,'' she murmurs against his mouth.
One of his hands moves down her back, as the other brushes a loose curl away from her face. ''You know, I think below all the tough, ninja exterior you're really just as soft and mushy as the rest of us, Ziva David,'' he says teasingly, kissing her to assure her it wasn't an accusation.
She smiles and sends him a sultry gaze. ''Feel free to make yourself more familiar with my interior, Tony DiNozzo.''
He almost growls, and sits up to kiss her neck. ''You're going to kill me one day, you know that?'' he says into her shoulder.
''There are worst ways to die.''
He grunts when her hand strays under his pants. ''There definitely aren't any better ones.''
And so their Saturday night goes much the same way as the previous one. Only this time they aren't drunk—at least, not off alcohol. Tony, personally feels a little drunk off her the entire time—and there are no doubts about it being a mistake. It's the surest he's been about anything, in fact, and he hopes Ziva feels the same way. She certainly seems to.
As they drift off together in the early hours of the morning, he finds himself wondering how things suddenly happened so fast after so many years of slow-burning?
It's funny how much can change in a week.
The show is dead to me, but Tony and Ziva never will be. Hope you enjoyed