Back to Work
Disclaimer: I don't own anything to do with NCIS, and I never will (sadly enough).
One-shot, spoilers for "Nine Lives", takes place several months after that episode. Tiva(ish).
NCIS Special Agent Tony DiNozzo gave a contented sigh as he collapsed into his couch, a cold beer in hand and the Ohio State basketball game on the television. He had purposely checked, double-checked, and triple-checked before updating his satellite package, to make sure that he would have access to every OSU game. Usually, the long hours at work meant that his TiVo got to see more of the Buckeyes than he did, but a slam-dunk case and slim paperwork meant that he could see his team take on the Wolverines as it was happening.
He had just popped the cap from his beer when his phone rang. Groaning at the interruption, he checked the screen before answering. "Ziva," he greeted. "You're making me miss the slaughter of the Wolverines."
There was a pause on the other end before his partner answered. "I do not know what that means," she stated. He sighed.
"Ohio State vs. Michigan," he explained. "Basketball."
"Ah," Officer Ziva David replied. She paused again. "Do you remember that movie we watched together a few years ago? Kill Hard?"
He straightened in his seat. "Die Hard," he corrected automatically. They had watched it together years before, when he took it upon himself to introduce her to American culture, before his relationship with Jeanne, but that wasn't what got his attention. Still hesitant about her position in the States and unsure whether or not she was being observed—by enemies, or by friends—she had insisted that they work out a series of code phrases, which would sound innocuous over the phone but hint Tony as to any danger. He cleared his throat. Her answer to his question determined what she needed from him. "Do you want me to bring it over?"
"Yes," she replied. "I tried to find it at the rental shop, but it was not in." His game now forgotten, he turned off the TV, mourning the miss of another game. That particular phrase meant that she needed him at her apartment as soon as possible. If she had said that she was just trying to remember the name so she could recommend it for a friend, it would mean that a member of the team was in danger. At least, that's what he thought it meant; they had never had to use those code phrases. "You can park in my space; my car is the store."
"Shop," he corrected, already unlocking the door of his Mustang. He frowned; he couldn't remember if that was a code phrase or not.
He made his way to her Silver Spring apartment in record time. Just as she said, her parking space was empty, her Mini Cooper nowhere in sight. Quickly scanning the parking lot for anything unusual, he exited his car, his Sig out at his side. He made his way to Ziva's door silently before banging loudly on the door, announcing his presence to anyone who might be inside.
"It is open," Ziva called through the door. Still not sure what was going on, he kept his gun in the ready position, only lowering it when he saw Ziva curled up on the couch, a book on her lap and a glass of wine in her hand.
"Don't do that again!" he said warningly with a sigh of relief as he holstered his weapon. She looked up, confused. As she realized what he was talking about, she began laughing. "It's not funny!" he insisted. "Haven't you heard of the boy who cried wolf?"
"I am sorry," she said, still trying to hold back her laughter. "I needed to talk to you, and did not want to do so over the phone."
"You could have just said that," he told her. She rose from the couch, the look on her face explaining why she did not—the same reason they came up with code words in the first place. She was afraid her phone or apartment might be bugged.
"You can turn on your game," she told him. "I have ESP. I do not want you to miss your Wolverines."
"ESPN," he corrected, chuckling. "ESP is reading people's minds. ESPN is the TV network. And it's the Buckeyes I'm watching."
"You are watching both, no?"
He sighed, knowing that that would be an explanation that would take far too long. "Sure, Ziva," he replied, reaching for the remote. The small screen she had in her place was nothing like the set-up in his, but at least he could see the game.
"I am getting another glass of wine," she called out from the kitchen. "Do you want anything?" Before he had the chance to respond, she handed him a beer.
"Thanks," he said as she returned to the couch. She turned the volume up a few notches, confirming Tony's suspicion that she thought her apartment was bugged. When she didn't say anything after several minutes, his curiosity got the best of him. "Is there a reason why I'm watching this here and not in my apartment?"
"You are my partner; I felt you needed to know what was going on." He froze briefly at her words, his mind immediately jumping to conclusions—was she leaving NCIS, going back to Israel to be with the man in the photo he saw a few months ago? Maybe she was getting married, or was pregnant, or—. He forced himself to calm down.
"So, what's going on?"
She watched the game absently for a few seconds before answering. "I am still working for Mossad."
He frowned. "I know," he said slowly. "I thought that was the point of the Mossad-NCIS liaison position." She shook her head.
"No, I mean, I am still working for Mossad, in the way I was trained to."
Oh. That was a different situation. "For how long?" he asked.
"Since Director Vance sent me back to Israel after Jenny's death."
He raised his eyebrows, his first thought being, I wonder if Gibbs knows. Knowing that she didn't send the equivalent of an SOS to discuss their boss, he asked instead, "Why are you telling me this?"
There was another pause before she answered. "Because you are my partner," she said simply.
"I've been your partner again for months," he reminded her. "Why are you telling me now?"
"I was tired of lying," she said. A ghost of a smile appeared on her lips. "And I am tired of you pesting me about my trip to Israel."
"Pestering," he corrected automatically. He grinned. "So your trip to Tel Aviv—"
"Was work," she interrupted.
Not knowing if he wanted to know the answer, he asked anyway. "And the man in the picture?"
"Is dead."
He nodded and took a long pull of his beer, trying to assimilate everything she had just told him. He grinned as a thought came to him. "So you don't have a boyfriend?" he teased.
"Tony," she said warningly. He grinned again and dropped the subject.
They watched the rest of the game together, with him attempting to do the impossible: explain the rules of basketball to Mossad Officer Ziva David. After cheering the Buckeyes on to another victory, he put in a movie, one of the several that Tony had given Ziva for Christmas—or Hanukkah—gifts.
It was late—or early, depending on how one looked at it—after the movie, and both Tony and Ziva had several drinks in them. Not trusting himself to drive home, Tony asked if he could crash on the couch.
"You are too tall for the couch," Ziva pointed out. "Every time you sleep on my couch, you complain of being sore for the next week. You can sleep on the bed, if you can keep your hands to yourself." She knew he could; he had crashed at her place and slept in her bed several times since they were undercover shortly after she joined the team.
"And if I can't?" Tony asked with a grin. Ziva snorted and rolled her eyes.
"I will kill you with my bare hands," she replied, getting up to get ready for bed.
"Assuming I don't suffocate you with a pillow to stop your snoring first," he muttered to himself.
The next morning, Tony awoke to the sound of the door opening, Ziva returning to the apartment after her run, that ridiculous orange hat covering her dark hair. "Good morning," she greeted on the way to the bathroom. "Sleep well?"
"No," he growled. "Someone's snoring kept me up."
"That is the kettle calling the oven black."
"Pot calling the kettle black, Ziva," he said, pulling himself out of bed. "I really would have thought your idioms would be back to where they were before you left by now."
She rolled her eyes. "I am going to take a shower," she announced, as if he couldn't figure that out.
"Want company?" he asked, leering down at her.
"No," she replied, closing the bathroom door in his face. He grinned and headed for the kitchen to get something for breakfast.
A little more than an hour later, they were in the elevator on the way up to the bullpen, ready to start another day of work. As they headed for their desks, Special Agent Timothy McGee glanced up, a guilty expression instantly on his face. "Ziva!" he exclaimed. "I'm so sorry, I completely forgot that I was going to pick you up on my way to work—"
"It is okay, McGee," Ziva interrupted. "Tony gave me a ride."
Knowing that DiNozzo's place was nowhere near Ziva's apartment, McGee frowned, looking over at the senior field agent. "That's right, McAbsent-Minded," he said. "That's because I'm a real friend." Ziva only rolled her eyes, and McGee opened his mouth to protest, but the sudden appearance of their boss interrupted him.
"Grab your gear," Special Agent Leroy Jethro Gibbs ordered, barely swinging by his desk on the way to the elevator.
"Back to work as usual?" DiNozzo asked David as they followed their boss. She smiled.
"Back to work as usual."