A/N: Well, it has been a massively busy week! A good week, but massively busy. Anyway, I absolutely loved Tuesday's episode! And, of course, I ferretted out the romantic potential that it had so this little oneshot will have some Gibbs/Borin friendship (though I like her waaaay better than the lawyer lady), McAbby, and, naturally, Tiva! (was that last scene not awesome or what?) Beware, I had originally written this in past tense and switched it over to present tense, and while I'm pretty sure I converted everything to present tense, something may have slipped past so please forgive that. Reviews are always welcome if you like (to review that is, or the story, whatever works). Until then, Kit.
DISCLAIMER: At 11:29pm I still own nothing . . . . . . And the clock just changed and at 11:30pm I still own nothing. . . . . . I am no longer holding my breath on 11:31pm.
WARNING: Spoilers for Jursidiction.
"So . . . . Why'd your date cancel?" his voice is neutral, benign in its indifference -but this is obviously a simulated disinterest. He has made it just past the opening credits before his curiosity of her previous explanation won out, his inner detective determined to uncover the thought process behind her vague answer.
Really he has ulterior motives.
Her gaze slides lazily over to him, studying his profile out of her peripheral vision, his own eyes focused intently on the screen before them. She returns her attention to the movie and squash-buckling and yo-ho-ho. Seemingly ignoring his question, enjoying him fidget slightly beside her.
She sighs, replying, "He forgot to pay his electric bill and the power company cut off his electricity. What happened to your date? Why'd she cancel?"
Now he sighs, snaking his arm around the backrest of her chair, causing the seat to wheel closer to his. She doesn't even blink at the closer proximity, or acknowledge the movement in any way whatsoever. "My date," he explains slowly, morosely, teasingly, "canceled because I forgot to pay my electric bill." And only then does he look directly at her, forsaking a vital part of the onscreen plot to catch her vain attempt to mask her smirking.
"She probably forgives you," she assures.
"Probably?"
"Probably. Or she could be at her place of work watching a movie with her very attractive coworker."
Tony's brow furrows at this and it takes him a few moments to try and untangle her underlying meaning.
"I'm . . . . confused," he announces and she quirks an eyebrow in response. "Were you complimenting me or attacking my self-assurance?"
She only chuckles softly.
The television set casts a warm glow in the darkened bedroom, effectively illuminating the area enough that he can differentiate between which lump on the bed is her and which is the dog.
"Hey, Abs?" he calls softly from the doorway, not wanting to wake her nor startle her. But apparently she is still lucid enough to raise her head off her pillow at the sound of his voice. "You awake?"
"Mm-hm."
And he dares venture further, bearing a glass of water, two Excedrin tablets, and a damp washcloth.
She rolls over once he reaches her bedside, permitting him to assist her in sitting up and keeping her from slumping over as her brain seemingly makes contact with the front of her skull. "Ooh," she winces, fuzzily, "Head rush."
"This ought to help," he says gently, pressing the aspirins into her palm. She offers him a weak smile before popping the pills into her mouth and taking a sip of the water.
"Thanks, Timmy."
He grins, affectionately brushing her ebony tresses back off her face, "Anytime. . . . Oh, yeah, here, put this on your head -it'll help. I promise."
She takes the cool compress and lays it over her forehead, humming in relief.
"Better?"
"Much."
Tim places a quick, chaste kiss on her alabaster cheek, a smile ghosting across her face before he returns to the opposite side of the bed.
Something soft presses against his leg as he climbs into his side of the bed and he finds himself staring down at the wide imploring eyes of a Labrador puppy. He sighs, bending down and scooping up the wriggling mass of fur, depositing it unceremoniously onto the mattress. The pup bounces on impact, gaining his footing and wobbling over to the great German Shepherd occupying the foot of the bed.
Jethro sleepily lifts his muzzle, giving an obvious snort as he sniffs over Mortimer, ultimately deciding to let the youngling curl against his side. And with the dogs settled and Abby dozing quietly beside him, he turns off the television and rolls onto his side, sighing again, deeply content as sleep claims him.
"I should apologize for not thanking you-"
"Don't believe in apologies either."
Gibbs smirks, though she is behind him and can't see, "Of course you don't."
"Are you smirking, Agent Gibbs?" Or maybe she can see him.
He turns around, regarding the pretty redhead leaning up against a sawhorse. He offers her a mason jar three fingers full of amber liquid, which she regards with mild curiosity.
"Sure do know how to treat a girl, don't you, Agent Gibbs?" she asks pointedly.
"We're off duty, you can call me Jethro."
"Well, then, Jethro, I guess you can call me Abby." And when he looks over his shoulder at her, her tawny eyes light and teasing and daring. And he so relents for the greater peace of their evening, acquiescing with an, "Abby."
A victorious smile creeps across her face as she cocks her head, copper curls falling off her shoulder, "See? That wasn't so bad."
He grunts in response, passing her takeout box wordlessly as he settles across from her, back propped against the rib of a scarcely started boat, situating his chopsticks and own box of food. "You don't drink," he acknowledges around a mouthful of chicken, nodding to her abandoned shot now resting on the sawhorse.
"What? Oh," she drops her chopsticks in her box and reaches for the mason jar that once held nails. Raising the glass, she toasts, "To a closed case. And interdepartmental cooperation crap."
He raises his takeout container in agreement with her impromptu toast having left his own glass on the workbench.
Abby puts the jar to her lips and knocks back the shot in one go, leaving Gibbs both mildly impressed and taken aback. "Good bourbon," she commends, returning to her own dinner.
"That a boat?"
"Yep."
"You know you'll never get it out of your basement, right?"
"Never stopped me before."
"Before . . . . ?"
"Already built four others."
"I see. Well, a man's gotta have a hobby."
Another grunt and nod are awarded to her.
And their night continues in companionable silence over Chinese fast-food (in which she stole his asparagus) and bright tawny eyes watching as he sands down the rib of the boat (though she declines his offer on boat making lessons). She talks a little and he talks a little, but not talking is the dominate of their conversation. And he sands as she investigates his basement and dials around different radio stations.
When she departs from the bowels of his basement a few minutes after two a.m., he extends the invitation that his front door is never locked if she ever wants bitter coffee, bourbon in a mason jar, or boat making lessons.
"Tony!" Ziva raises her hand, shielding her eyes from the white beam of the flashlight slicing through the darkness.
He grins at her cheekily, redirecting the beam to shine up under his chin, casting his familiar face in a chilling glow. She rolls her eyes but he can't see.
The light drops back to the ground, illuminating the floor so he can see where he's going, a preventative measure taken after he nearly broke his toe in the cover of predawn darkness.
He slides into bed, overtaking his official "side" and intruding upon hers. Again the light manages to hit her square in the face and again she exclaims, "Tony!" And now her hand is grasped tightly around his forearm, as her other hand wrestles away the flashlight, their movements causing a strobe light effect.
Unfortunately, she has underestimated his unoccupied arm and in one fluid movement he has her sprawled on top of him, her body flush against his, her heat radiating through her pajamas as he takes her wrists in the manacles he's formed with his hands, holding their arms perpendicular to their bodies.
"Ha," he gloats. "I win."
"I am on top."
"Yeah, well, you don't have the flashlight."
"Neither do you, Tony," she points out silkily.
"Yeah, where do you think that went?"
"Let me go," she purrs, "and we can find out? Hm?"
He chuckles, the sound vibrating through his chest, "Nice try, but I'm comfortable."
"We cannot sleep like this, Tony." And, of course, she is being the rational one.
Still . . . .
"If I let you go, you have to promise me something," he says, knowing that negotiating with her is probably stupid and dangerous and riddled with flaws.
She sighs, her breath fanning across his neck. "Fine. What?"
"When the electricity comes back on, you won't straighten your hair."
"What?" she sounds confused as she struggles to sit up, or at least maneuver herself to where she is at least looking him in eyes.
"You heard me."
"Okay. . . . . Why?"
He manages a shrug, "'Cause. It makes you look soft."
"Soft," she repeats dubiously.
"Yep."
"You are a strange man, Anthony DiNozzo."
"Yep. But you love me for it."
She agrees, "True. Now let me up."
And reluctantly he relinquishes his hold on her and she rolls off him.
A three minute search reveals the flashlight's hideout under the bed amongst Tony's socks and Ziva's missing bra. And with the flashlight turned off (and safely perched on Ziva's night table) the room -the whole apartment really - is plunged into total darkness.
Tony sighs once, a long exhale through his nose, curling himself around his partner. She smiles, reaching behind her and tugging his arm so it is draped loosely over her waist.
"'Night, Zee."
"Goodnight, Tony. . . . . And Tony?"
"Hm?"
"You are my best friend."
And he presses a kiss into her shoulder blade in response.
And both drift off into a calm, placid slumber.
Until three in the morning when the electricity is restored and virtually every light in the apartment flickers to life in a seemingly blinding sunspot. ("Hey, look-ie-there. Power's back on!")