This is a quick little one I wrote this morning because I'm having a bit of writer's block with Broken Silence. It's from Tony's POV.

Also, there are definitely similarities here to Spirits, but it's not a sequel (I am, however, planning one!)

Guy Gets Girl

The superhero, cop, foreign spy, secluded writer, FBI intelligence, convicted felon.

He always gets the girl.

At least, in the movies, he does. Look at Cusack, Nicholson, Cruise.

My life is kind of like a movie. I shoot, I kill, I knock down doors and take names, all to save my country.

And I've got a pretty sexy sidekick, too.

But don't let her hear you say that.

She is not your typical girl. Woman. She doesn't have a cute name like Stephanie or wear red nail polish or fuss over her hair.

Ok. So I'm actually more like her sidekick.

She hits her target 10 out of 10 times. Give her any object and she'll kill a man.

Believe me, I've seen it.

And I've also seen what's underneath. All of it.

Believe me, it's all woman.

But that was only once. And we were undercover and only pretending and yes it was my knee, so realistically, it doesn't count.

It's not that I haven't tried.

For some reason she tends to not take me seriously. So when I say she looks good or stare down her shirt she calls me a pig. Or when I smile at her in the morning, she asks me the name of the girl she assumes I was with last night. As if I wasn't just happy to see her.

Ok, let's stop right there before you go agreeing with her. I mean a guy has needs, right?

Or when I worry. Like that time she went undercover and almost died and then pinned my arm after I tried to tousle her hair. She brushes me off like she doesn't know she can come to me.

But how many times have I offered a drink? I talk, you listen?

There was one time she turned to me for comfort. Last week. She had gone undercover, yet again. I guess that's what happens when you're one of a few women working at an agency. One of a few agents period that boss trusts to handle themselves.

By the time we got there – into the motel room where she had ended up once her target realized her cover – they were both half naked, punching and rolling and waving guns and knives.

We questioned her relentlessly in regards to what happened up there. Her account of events was methodical, planned.

She had too many clothes on for rape, but I wondered if…

She wouldn't – hell, I knew she'd never – talk.

But she came to my apartment that night. Took me up on a drink the third time I asked. Under one condition, she had said, your apartment or mine?

When she gave the ultimatum – though c'mon, it's not like she had to twist my arm to get some alone time – she had flashed my favorite, come hither smile that always made me think of the bedroom and what she'd be doing, wearing, when she made that face.

So she came to my apartment, bearing liquor and a smile.

One thing I know I'm sitting on the couch, sipping scotch and half watching the movie she insisted we put on, I know so that she wouldn't be forced to talk. The next, she's straddling my lap, forcefully running fingers through my hair.

"Tony," she speaks, "What do you say we have a little….fun?"

"And what is your idea of….fun?"

She presses her lips to mine – god, who knew such a tough chick could have soft lips – and slips her tongue in.

And just as quickly she is out, again looking down at me.

I knew I couldn't let this go much further. She had clearly been assaulted in some way today, and for some reason in her mind sex with her partner seemed like a good anecdote.

She kisses me once more. Slowly. I know she can feel how hard I am, pressed against her.

Of all the times I've dreamed of this.

I have to choose tonight to demonstrate what a stand up guy I am.

I draw in breath quickly as I feel her hips shift, grind for two beats, against me.

But we don't have to stop…just yet.

"That, is definitely not your knee, this time." She says, with a hint of delight in her voice.

And in response to what is not my knee, she whips her dark green shirt off, throwing it behind her over the TV.

And there she is.

Her bra is black. Delicate. With sleek curves and some kind of lace.

Her breasts are pushed up and god would it count if I just took one out?

Her stomach is slender, taut. A faint definition of a four pack visible underneath….

Bruises.

I place my fingertips gently over the darkest one.

"He did this." It was more of a statement than a question.

And then she flashes me that look, that come hither smile that I think about sometimes – often – while laying alone in bed.

So that's what she looks like – what she's doing – in the bedroom when she shows it. She's hiding.

She kisses me again.

And I know.

Now it is time. Must. Stop.

I pull my head back. "Ziva," I breathe her name and she looks at me.

She knows.

"I could have my way with you if I wanted." She tugs on the hair at the back of my head, pulling me ever so slightly.

I gulp. That actually would be a good solution to tonight….

But she only slides off me, still shirtless, perched on the edge of the couch. Rigid.

I can tell she is hurt and I search for something to say, do, to break the tension, lift her spirits. Anything.

"I, uh, I like your bra." I saw awkwardly.

OK, so maybe not anything. Stupid, DiNozo. Stupid.

"Apparently you only like it on."

I awkwardly give a few uncomfortable laughs. Here is where it gets tricky. The situation could go a number of ways, likely one of two. I finally convince her that yes, she is attractive, and she is hurt and dejected and mad that I refused her advances. Or she is left feeling unattractive and…

Oh boy.

But she is a woman. I am an expert.

"You know that's not what this is."

She snorts. "Oh really? Because you had me half naked and refused and quite frankly, I've never known Tony DiNozzo to refuse sex."

I get kind of angry now. Yes, I like sex. A lot. But who does she think I am?

"Do you really think it would be right of me to sleep with someone – no, not just someone – my partner – who was almost raped today?"

The room goes silent.

I may have just crossed the line, but I can see in her eyes that she knows I'm right. Good luck getting her to admit that, though.

She stands up, presumably to get her shirt, but I stop her.

"What happened in there, today?"

She sighs. "You have heard my statement. Read it too, I am sure."

"And I don't believe you."

"I did not lie!"

"Ok. Omitted."

She settles back down onto the couch. She opens her mouth twice, to speak, before finding the right words.

"He tried, ok, yes. But I don't think he was expecting me to fight back so hard."

I study the bruises on her still exposed stomach.

"He did not come close," she finished, leaning forward to draw my attention away from her bruises.

"Are you sure you believe that?"

And then she falls. Her shoulders, her face, the tension she'd been holding.

Wearing just that black lace bra, I can see how quickly her chest rises and falls.

She speaks quietly, slowly. Her voice not without emotion, yet still stoic.

"He came close. If you and Gibbs had not have come. I could not have fought him off, much longer."

"It must have been…scary," I offer, searching for how to show comfort without pity or sympathy.

She did not cry – Ziva would never cry. She merely looked troubled, confused as to how something like this could have almost happened to her.

"I was not…scared," she finished, as she stands up, going to retrieve her shirt.

I know that this, too, is not a lie. I've heard enough comments to know that she'd seen, felt, been through a lot as Mossad.

I watch her as she dresses, the way her muscles move and flex. Her tanned skin.

I watch her speak. "It is, what it is, Tony."

"Why did you come here tonight?"

"You asked."

"No," I corrected. "I asked for a drink. Not sex."

She is silent, toying with the remote.

"You know how I feel about you, right? That being with you – intimately – is something I've wanted for a long time?"

She is still silent, so I speak for her. "I know why you came here tonight. I know how strong the need is to be intimate, physical with someone after a hard case."

I take a breath. It is only fair, to reciprocate, I suppose. "Why do you think I'm always with so many different women?"

She looks at me then, startled at my confession.

"I know, how you feel about me, yes, Tony. That is why I came."

"How do you feel about me?"

Her eyes flash and her lips part.

Yep, she feels the same.

I want to grab her and kiss her and ask where we go from there. But this is Ziva, and she was attacked today and she is not mushy nor one for over the top affection.

And so I let her flick back through the DVD, finding the spot where we left off.

And as we both lean back, inches from one another, I smile to myself.

I have another little confession.

But don't let her hear you say this.

That time, we were undercover?

It wasn't my knee.

...

A/N: So what did you all think? Would anyone be interested in a sequel to this story that depicts Ziva's undercover assignment referenced in this story? It'd be short, probably no more than 5,000 words (ok, maybe 7,000!), or could be as short as 2,000. Let me know and I'll get on it!