A/N- I don't own NCIS or the characters. Wish I did, but I don't.
I've been working on two or three different stories at the same time, which is never a good idea because then you never finish any of them. Oops.
But this one-shot appeared out of nowhere, so I figured I could take a break from the intense multi-chapter stuff to publish it. I hope you all like it! :)
The harsh beeping of Tony's alarm woke him up all too soon. His eyes only half opened, he smacked the snooze button with the palm of his hand. It was too damn early.
With a groan, he rolled over, away from the blinding light streaming through his window, searching for the warmth of Ziva's body beside him. When he found nothing but bunched up cotton sheets, Tony opened his eyes.
He glanced at the floor, where last night, a trail of clothes led from the doorway to his bed. All that remained were his jeans and tee shirt, which had been shed carelessly in the heat of passion. He sat up and leaned over, craning his neck to see the mat by the front door, where she'd kicked off her sneakers. Those, too, were gone.
He rubbed his face with his hands before allowing himself to fall backwards, his head hitting the pillow with a thud.
Really, he shouldn't have been surprised. Ziva never stayed.
And when they were at her apartment, he always snuck out before she woke up, just as she was beginning to come out of her deep slumber—he could always tell because her lips would move but no words would come out. He'd stare at her for at least five minutes, arguing with himself about whether he should stay or leave. In the end, though, he's always kiss her gently on the cheek, whisper words into her ear that he wouldn't dare say if she were awake, and sneak out the door before he could change his mind. That's just how things were.
He'd thought last night was the night that things shifted.
They'd both been working late, and decided that instead of ordering takeout for the third time that week, they'd go out and get pizza when they got off work. McGee wound up having some brilliant idea for his book and rushed home before Gibbs found out, and Abby was bowling with the nuns. Of course, their boss went home to work on his boat. So it wound up being just the two of them.
No, it wasn't a date, not a real one. They'd never been on a date, they'd only had sex. Technically, they weren't breaking rule number twelve.
Even though they were at a local mom-and-pop pizza store, and even though they were both in their work attire, and even though it was completely spur-of-the-moment and unplanned, Tony swore that it felt significant in a way he couldn't possibly put into words. Somehow, it felt different.
They practically inhaled their pizza, because they hadn't eaten since lunch. Then, they'd simply sat and talked for over two hours. Not about anything serious, of course. Not about their current relationship, either—how once or twice a week, they would have mind-numbing sex and then act as if nothing had happened the next day at work. It had been going on for, what, three months? Maybe four or five? Tony had lost track.
He remembered the first time, how it seemed almost accidental. It wasn't premeditated, and then the next thing he knew, they were both in his bed, naked. He remembered after, rolling over to snuggle up to her back, how easily she fell into his embrace, and when his arm lazily draped around her waist and he was stroking the skin at her hipbone, he'd felt as though it had happened a hundred times before.
But they hadn't talked about any of that, because they never did. And Tony didn't mind. They just talked about the uncomplicated things. It felt natural, straightforward and comfortable, and he'd genuinely enjoyed the time they'd spent just sipping their Coke and speculating about how Gibbs got his boat out of his basement. (She guessed he knocked down the walls and rebuilt them every time. He argued that that would be too time consuming. She'd asked if he had a better guess, and he had to admit that he didn't.)
When Ziva noticed that it was almost midnight and suggested that they get home, she offered to help him carry the leftover pizza up to his apartment, because it would be hard to juggle a pizza box and all his gear. And he appreciated the offer, even knowing that she wasn't offering sex; after all, they'd taken their two separate cars, and it was still a weeknight.
They arrived at the same time, and he grabbed his gear and she grabbed the pizza box. Once they were inside, she put the pizza in the refrigerator and turned to say goodnight and get on her merry way. She pecked his cheek chastely and pulled back, as if to make for the door, but then... she didn't. It was as if something stopped her.
Her dark eyes met his and she realized that she didn't want to go home, alone. Not tonight. She didn't want to say goodnight, like they always did.
But she didn't say that, any of it, because saying it out loud would confirm that it was actually how she felt, and that was too overwhelming. So she stood in his kitchen, gazing at him, without moving or speaking.
Since she didn't explain herself, he had to try to figure out what was going on in her head. The mood of the room was such that he knew talking about it was out of the question. Really, though, it didn't matter, because he knew, all the same.
Very slowly, gingerly, giving her time to change her mind, Tony reached for her and pulled her into a tight embrace, just holding her. It was an invitation. Even through her jacket, he felt her heart pounding, hammering in her chest.
He'd pulled back just enough to meet her eyes again, maybe to say something, but before the words could even form on his tongue, she pressed her lips to his, silencing him. The kiss was so tender, so raw, that Tony felt his heart stammer for a couple of beats, then he wound his arms around her waist, keeping her close.
Now, laying alone in bed and thinking about it, Tony buried his face in his pillow. He never cared if women spent the night. In fact, he was usually more relieved when they left before he woke up, because it spared him the uncomfortable small talk and the awkwardness of the morning-after breakfast. But he knew with Ziva, there wouldn't be any tension, because there never was. (Well, unless it was sexual tension. That was a different story entirely.)
Why did it even matter if she stayed until morning? He'd always see her at work within forty-eight hours. It shouldn't make a difference. With a loud sigh, Tony swung his legs over the side of his bed and rubbed his eyes. Maybe if he just started his morning routine, he could get himself to stop thinking so damn much.
He stood and trudged toward the bathroom when he suddenly heard his apartment door open and close. He froze in place. The intruder sighed airily and stepped into his kitchen, and Tony knew those footsteps anywhere.
"Ziva?" he called out hesitantly.
He heard her drop her jacket over the back of a chair before she stepped into his bedroom doorway, a cup in each hand. A smirk played on her lips when she observed her buck-naked partner gawking at her.
Tony shook his head in an attempt to regain at least some composure, but his thoughts continued to tumble around. He tried to figure out what to say, and finally settled with, "Where did you go?"
Ziva suddenly looked sheepish. Ziva? Sheepish?
"I woke up before you and tried to make us both a cup of coffee, but I think I broke your coffee machine," she admitted, and the combination of embarrassment and frustration on her face almost made Tony laugh out loud.
"I thought that I had time to walk to Dunkin Donuts before you woke up. I know you like their caramel mocha lattes," she said, and she held out a cup for him. When Tony just stared at her, her eyebrows knitted together in confusion. "You do like caramel, yes?" she asked him, thinking that perhaps she'd gotten his order wrong.
Tony approached her, not focusing at all on the two styrofoam cups in her hands.
She was still confused. "I promise I will replace your coffee machine, if it really is broken," she offered, tilting her head.
"You stayed?" he asked her quietly, his tone one of disbelief.
The confusion melted from her face, and it was replaced by a look of gentle affection that Tony rarely saw but wanted desperately to remember.
"Yes," she murmured, placing the lattes on his nightstand before meeting his eyes again, "I stayed."
He cupped her face in his hands and gazed at her. He felt the way she had the night before: that speaking out loud how he felt was too overwhelming.
But she knew, all the same.
And he knew that she knew, that she understood, because she always did. He didn't have to explain because she ran her thumb over his lips absently, and he knew they were on the same page. So he kissed her with so much passion that by the time they came up for air, her cheeks were tinted pink and she was slightly breathless.
She smiled at him, searching his eyes. "What was that for?" she asked, placing her hand on his hip experimentally and drawing him nearer. He obeyed eagerly.
"For remembering my favorite latte," he informed her, flashing his most charming DiNozzo grin.
Her eyes lit up and she moved her mouth to his neck and jaw, gently caressing his morning stubble with her lips. His eyes fluttered shut and his hand came to rest at the small of her back.
"And," he added in a rough whisper, "for not leaving."
She raised her head and her eyes sparkled with adoration and lust and wanting, and her mouth hungrily reclaimed his.
Her pulse raced as he kissed her back with just as much force, and he slowly walked backwards, pulling her toward his bed, caramel mocha lattes entirely forgotten.
As his hands roamed her body and began to remove her layers of clothing, she thought to herself that just this once, she wouldn't mind being late to work.
Just this once, the Gibbs-slap would be completely worth it.