A/N: Sorta-taggish to Engaged I. A possible scenario that has been done to death. Someone needs to give DiNozzo a kick in the rear . . . Enjoy! Peace and love, Kit.
DISCLAIMER: I own nothing.
"NOW"
He's been here, in this exact place, facing this exact door, what seems like a hundred times before. And it's an ungodly hour, already either early tomorrow, or late yesterday, but it doesn't matter. And it's an utter and complete cliché that he's even entertaining this idea, this tired, fanciful, ridiculous idea, but it doesn't matter.
Because it has to be done.
And it has to be done now.
He reaches out, arm extended, index finger hovering over the doorbell, and everything that led him to this moment comes flooding to the forefront of his mind.
What would this woman possibly see in you?
And that is why we love you.
I found my favorite picture.
I could not afford to trust you . . . I couldn't live without you.
You weren't there . . . I guess I'll never know . . . I did what I had to do . . . For you.
I'm tired of pretending.
Nesiah tova.
And suddenly they're not there.
It was inevitable . . . Nothing is inevitable.
Go tell her what she needs to hear . . . The heart wants what it wants.
Not worth dying over.
I'm trying to picture you pregnant.
Having phone sex?
The reality of it all hits him with all the force of a C-130, stealing his breath, and crushing him under the sheer enormity of what he's about to do. In a former life, in another mindset, in an alternate dimension, he would have practiced this moment, rehearsed it, memorized a script . . . But this is what his life's amounted to presently, and this is his current mindset (and has been for quite some time, actually). And Billy Wilder himself couldn't have gotten this scene right.
He presses the button and hears the muffled chiming from within. And here's his moment of truth . . .
He wonders, staggeringly, if she's not even home, if she's somewhere else, with someone else. But then there's the scraping of a lock being turned, the audible click of a deadbolt being disengaged. And then the door swings open and . . .
Here they are.
She has her damp hair scraped back into messy bun, but a few pieces have escaped confinement and curl against her shoulder. She's wearing bright blue yoga pants and a long-sleeved thermal and an expression of mild amusement. The amusement he takes as a positive sign, considering it's really late (or really early) and he very well could have woken her up-
"Did I wake you?" he asks by way of preamble.
"Tony, we left the office an hour and a half ago. No, you did not wake me."
"Good," he says distractedly, surreptitiously brushing his sweaty palms against his dress pants. And he isn't nervous –why would he be nervous?
"Tony, have you been drinking?"
"What? No!"
She waits for a continuation, but he doesn't follow through and she has to prod him along with, "What do you want?" She doesn't sound irritated, she doesn't sound anything really, tired maybe, a little curious, perhaps entertained.
"I love you." And he says it as if he's said it so many times before, as if it's the most natural thing in the world. He says it as if it's true.
And, she realizes, it is.
Dark eyes stare into green-grey, shining with something that might just mean everything. Neither move and he remains leaning up against the wall beside the door, the picture of casual ease, while she lingers at the threshold, utterly unperturbed. And really, they're carrying on as if the world didn't just shift around them. As if six years worth of blood, and sweat, and tears hadn't led them to this single moment, this seemingly insignificant ripple in time. Six years worth of bullets and barbs and sand, laughter and silence and teasing.
It's all amounted to this.
"What now?" she wonders idly after several lengthy heartbeats, her expression unerringly calm.
And he wasn't quite expecting that. "What do you mean?"
"What happens now?" she repeats slowly. And at the persistence of his blank look, she finds herself elaborating patiently, "You had this planned out, yes?" And there's a smile at the edges of her lips that she's trying so very hard to delay.
He offers her a self-conscious grin, "I'm actually just making this up as I go. So far, so good."
"I see . . . Hm. If this was one of your movies, what happens next? After the handsome male lead professes his, ah, undying love to the unsuspecting woman."
He raises his eyebrows in mild surprise. "Did you just liken me to a handsome male lead?"
She rolls her eyes playfully, replying, "Obliquely."
He bestows upon her that dashing Cheshire grin that she thought she'd grown immune to. "It depends," he drawls carefully. "Does the beautiful costar love him back?"
"Of course."
"Really?" And he sounds like he was expecting something else. And it's kind of endearing.
"Yes, Tony, really."
"Well then, I guess this is the part where they finally get their onscreen kiss."
Her smile finally breaks across her face and he swears that the hallway just got a little bit brighter. He takes a step forward and she takes a step forward and they meet in the middle, coming together like they'd always knew they would. And since this entire moment is so clichéd already, he can't help but notice that they fit together perfectly. Her lips are soft beneath his and she threads her fingers through the short hairs at his nape, sighing against his mouth, and, damn, she's good. His arm snakes around her waist, pressing into her lower back, as his other hand cradles her head. And it's tender and passionate and slow and heady and everything they finally get to be.
When oxygen becomes a priority, they part and he rests his forehead against hers, his breath escaping in gentle pants.
"Wow," he murmurs and she chuckles softly at his stunned expression.
Life called today and it announced that it is too short and too precious to not appreciate. And, fortunately, this time he listened.
And he can now cross out the last number on the list in his back pocket.
And he can now add number twenty-seven.
Love her.
...
He's been here, in this exact place, facing this exact door, what seems like a hundred times before. And it's an ungodly hour, already either early tomorrow, or late yesterday, but it doesn't matter. And it's an utter and complete cliché that he even entertained the idea, the tired, fanciful, ridiculous idea, but it doesn't matter.
Because it's done.
And now it can begin.