My internet is playing up again. It is taking me ages to do anything online. There is also a spider on the ceiling, and I do not like spiders, but I cannot reach it to get it down. It is all…spidery. I do not like it. Plus, everything else that can go wrong has this morning. My car decided not to play the game, I burnt my toast, I knocked over a tall pile of books this morning, which knocked out the book mark and lost the page in the one I am reading… Put simply, I am not having a great day so far.

Back to that fateful Gibbs-less gap between seasons three and four. I just really like speculating as to what happened then, and, also, I really liked all of the characters at that point. They were young and carefree… Okay, so maybe not, but they were at a good stage then.

Another sad one. It is not as sad as some of the other ones though. Sad is just easier to write, for me at least.

I am not so sure of this one. It has been sat on my hard drive now for…over a year. And before that it had been scribbled on a wrinkled, coffee-stained piece of scrap paper for God-knows how long. It has not really changed since then, I just do not know if I like it enough to upload it. Hmm. Only time will tell.

Just Friends

"You home, Sweetcheeks?" Tony called as he entered the apartment. He had used his key to get in, the one she had had cut for him after he had picked her lock one too many times.

"In the bath! Give me ten more minutes!" She called through. "Red wine on the rack, white in the fridge." He knew where the wine was. She knew that he knew. He knew that she knew that he knew. They both also knew that he wasn't going to wait those ten minutes.

"Red or white?"

"Red."

He walked through to the kitchen, taking the two wine glasses that were the only things out of place in the pristine kitchen from the counter. They were there every night, waiting to be filled. He took the bottle of Merlot that they had opened the night before and poured two glasses, not bothering to knock as he walked into the bathroom and handed her one glass. Soft classical music filled the room and she sat low in the tub, only her legs on show. Even with the bubbles covering most of her body, he couldn't help the lascivious thoughts that raced through his mind at the sight of the damp skin of her legs, crossed and raised out of the water. Actually, he had those thoughts about her when she was bundled up in winter clothing, so a few bubbles were not going to stop him; they only made it worse. But he resisted all urges, something he had been getting better at as he spent more and more time at Ziva's apartment in the evenings. It had become like a second home to him, ever since Gibbs left. He sat on the edge of the tub, letting the fingertips of the hand that wasn't holding his glass trail through the warm, apricot scented water. He loosened his tie and pulled it over his head, discarding it across the other side of the tiled room.

"I liked the blouse you were wearing today."

"I thought you would." She smiled.

"Oh, so you wore it for my benefit?"

"No. I do not believe that is what I said."

"But that's what you meant." He shrugged, so sure of himself, making her laugh. He placed a hand on her knee, massaging the soft, tanned skin with his fingers. They both descended into silence again as they thought back to the case, McGee's harsh comment about Ziva 'sucking up' to Tony.

"Do you think this is weird, Tony?"

He retracted his hand quickly. "Oh, sorry, I thought you liked it the last time I did it."

"I still do. That was not what I was talking about." She reached up and carefully returned his hand to where it had been on her leg. "I meant us. Even the closest of friends do not sit and talk to each other whilst one is in the bath."

He knew where her questions were coming from immediately. "McGee was wrong to have said what he did."

"But he is right."

"No. He wasn't. You are my best friend Ziva. We're allowed to be close." He smiled at her.

"I am your best friend?" She looked up at him, a soft smile on her face.

"'Course you are. You think I'd spend every night here if you weren't?"

"I thought it was just some strange fascination you had with me and the bath." She teased.

"No, that's just called being a man." He laughed, trailing off as he ran his fingers down her thigh slowly. She caught his wrist before it could reach too far, a silent caution, and entwined her fingers with his, holding his hand above the water as they both stared off at nothing in particular. "Sorry."

"That is a sign of weakness."

"Again, I think it's more a sign of being a man." He sighed sadly. "Oh, you meant the apology. Yeah. I think they're both signs of weakness."

"You are not weak, Tony." She reminded him carefully, knowing just how much could tip him over the edge into a full-on rant about all the things he thought he had gotten wrong in his first few weeks as team leader.

He snorted and shook his head. "You're too kind. I'm the weakest of the whole team."

"No. No you are not." She shook her head. "You have managed to keep us together, you are doing a very good job at keeping the team together. You should give yourself some credit – you are doing a very good job."

"The bad stuff's easier to believe." He smiled sadly and brushed his lips against the back of her hand. "Julia Roberts said that in Pretty Woman."

"Pass me the towel please, Tony." She pointed and he nodded, standing up and passing her the pale blue bath sheet. He blushed and looked away as she stood up, unabashed. He did it every night they had one of their bathroom conversations. He never looked. Never made any of the comments she always expected him to. He always focused on his fingernails, or read the back of her tube of toothpaste or did something that meant he wouldn't be tempted to look, or at least wouldn't allow that temptation to rule him.

She smiled sadly at his back as she fixed her towel securely around her body, pulling the plug. The sound of the gurgling water filled the room as it spiralled away, echoing off the tiles of the floor and walls and momentarily blocking out the light piano music that tinkled from the CD player in the corner of the room. Using the cover of the sound, she silently stepped over to him and wrapped her wet arms around him, leaning her head on his back and peeking over his shoulder into the mirror. Her lips quirked up slightly in a smirk when he jumped, having not noticed her creep up on him, but it soon faded away back into a neutral expression. His shirt was damp due to the humidity of the room, his cheeks flushed when she looked at them, and she could not tell if that too was due to humidity, or something else. She had never thought he could get embarrassed, at least not when confronted with a naked woman, but she was uncertain at that point in time, for his eyes were cast down and would not meet hers in the reflection. His hand covered hers and she could feel how tense it was, almost like he was putting all of his energy into keeping it restrained.

"Are you okay, Tony?"

He stood for a moment longer before whirling round, knocking her arms away from where they wrapped around him, and scooping her up, tossing her slight frame over his shoulder, securing one of his arms around her bare legs.

"Tony, put me down!" She cried through the sudden laughter that overcame her as he ran through to her living room, both wineglasses in his free hand. He placed them down on her coffee table with a clonk, not listening to her weak protests, mostly hidden by her peels of laughter – a noise he delighted in hearing – as he moved over to the pile of DVDs that had been slowly migrating. He picked one out at random, skilfully opening the box and sliding the disc into the reader one handed as his other hand drew light patterns onto the soles of Ziva's feet, occasionally moving further up her legs, until she was gasping for air – who knew that Ziva David, fearless Mossad Assassin's one weakness was ticklish feet and legs? Once he had got the film to the title screen, he plucked her landline from its cradle and pressed speed dial 9.

The pizza parlour around the corner from his apartment.

He had set it after three of their pizza and movie nights, fed up of having to type their whole number in. He knew all of her speed dials better than he knew his own. 1 was him, of course – he could not see any other place for him to be on her phone, since he was, really, the only person she called without it needing to be about anything professional. 2 was Gibbs old number. It had been disconnected, but neither of them had the heart, or the strength, to delete it. 3 was Ducky, whom she shared afternoon tea with whenever she had the time – frequently at 0100h, or 0600h, or 2348h, or whatever time it was that they had both hit a pause in their work and they were both in the office. 4 was Director Shepard, Jenny, who was, after him, the only other person she ever spoke personally to without being forced. 5 was the McGook, since she was often the one to call him up and inform him of a case when they were on call. It did not matter that technically, McGee was senior field agent, second in command, Tony would always call Ziva first – it gave him an excuse to talk to her, even if just for a moment. Next was Abby. Abby had been down at 8, but she had been offended when, after Ziva had cooked for everyone, someone had let slip that she was after both Director David and the Israeli Embassy. Ziva had changed it immediately, not wanting her friend to feel unwanted. In their first year as a team, Abby and Ziva had not gotten along, but recently they had been growing closer and closer, just like her and Tony. It was another way of coping without Gibbs. At first he had noticed Abby being even more distant from Ziva, even colder to her when she tried to talk to her. And then she had been in his arms, sobbing, and questioning how it was that Ziva could get Gibbs to remember and she couldn't. He had made a joke, said something to make her laugh, and said that it was probably just Ziva's timing. And then, almost instantly, Abby warmed back up to her, because Ziva had made Gibbs remember them. That only left 7 and 8 on the speed dial. She had changed it recently, although she refused to tell him why. 7 was now the Israeli Embassy, and 8 was her father. It had been the other way round, and then all of a sudden she asked McGee to change it for her – she was almost as technologically illiterate as Gibbs.

He ordered a pizza, half and half, one side sausage and peperoni, the other olive and anchovy, joking with the guy in the restaurant that the squeals and screams he could hear over the phone was the woman he had captured, knowing the man at the pizza place and knowing that the man at the pizza place knew the address and his voice, and that he was joking. He then placed the phone back on its cradle and brought the rest of the bottle of wine through to the lounge, wrinkling his nose at the meagre quantity left and taking a second bottle with him. They landed on the table next to the glasses. Then, with more care than expected or needed, he swung Ziva down from his approximate fireman's lift into more of an awkward bridal carry, flopping onto the couch with her on his lap.

"Can I…at least…get changed?" She managed through her laughter as it slowed, his access to her feet more limited now.

"Nope."

"Tony, I am all wet!" He wiggled his eyebrows and grinned wolfishly, earning him a slap to his chest. "So is your shirt. You will ruin my couch."

"What you planning to do 'bout it, Sweetcheeks? Undress me here and now? Because there's been a lack of gossip circulating the office and I'm sure they could do with some more juicy little titbits of our lives for them to speculate over." He grinned more so, if possible, and received another slap.

"Who says I need to undress you? If I wanted groundless rumours to be spread about us, I would simply make them up myself." She shrugged simply. "Anyway, how is me undressing you in my apartment with no witnesses going to cause your house-fire of rumours?"

"Wildfire." She frowned. "'Cause wildfires spread real quickly."

"So can house-fires. If you have a good accelerant or even if the curtains and carpets and furniture are not particularly fire-retardant, house-fires can spread devastatingly quickly."

"It's scary, how much you know about this." He shook his head and changed the subject before she could remind him that she was an officer of Mossad and had seen many things through her career. "So, back to you wanting to undress me…"

"I never said I wanted to undress you, I said that your shirt was wet and I do not want it ruining my couch."

"So, you want me to undress for you?"

"I want you to change your shirt."

"Oh. Well, it's too late now, movie's started." He hit the play button and moved the remote out of her reach. "And you remember our rules, Sweetcheeks? No leaving or pausing the film unless it's for alcohol or pizza." He said condescendingly, propping a pillow up behind her head and flinging his arms across her stomach, barring her from leaving.

"Tony…"

"Shh." He looked down at her, letting his gaze clearly wander her body, the bare skin revealed by the towel, and looking up to the screen when she hit him, putting up a mask that could almost be called innocent, if not for the shameless look that still glistened in his eye and the smirk that outlined his lips.

She was tired. Exhausted. It was only then, as the closing credits rolled up the screen and the film ended, that the weight of the day, the week, finally crashed down on her. The steady rise and fall of his bare chest beneath her was enough to lull her to sleep right there and then, but she resisted, knowing fully well that it would only result in an uncomfortable – or maybe too comfortable – position to wake up in in the morning. She had, at some point, removed his shirt, after he had complained that the damp cloth was uncomfortable, taking each button slowly as her cold fingers worked, occasionally brushing against his warm skin and causing him to shiver slightly. She was unsure if it was just the contrast in temperature between their bodies that caused the small tensing every time she touched him, or something else, but she was certain that it was something that no matter how much she questioned it, it would be something she would never find the answer to. Somehow they had entwined themselves, limbs tangled and torsos pressed together – heart to heart. Miraculously, her towel had stayed more or less securely wrapped around her torso, having only ridden up the back of her thighs slightly. Her head was tucked just below his chin and one of his arms was wrapped around her, his hand resting on the small of her back whilst the other hung limply off the edge of the couch.

It used to be her, on their movie nights, that would fall asleep only fifteen minutes into the film, but as she lay tracing his features – the subtle lines creasing his face that she had never noticed before and the way his lips curved slightly even in sleep, a ghost of the grin flashed at her at least thrice daily – she realised that for the past four movies, it had been he who had barely made it through the opening credits. Working as team leader had been taking it out of him. To be fair, her and McGee had not really been making his life any easier – if they were not arguing, then they were making fun of Tony. The only thing that ever pacified them was Abby coming up and sitting on the corner of McGee's new desk. It was their way of rebelling, protesting the absence of their true boss. But they were too late, because he was never coming back.

A small part of her, a very small part of her, was grateful for that. If Gibbs were to come back then her and Tony's evenings together, particularly the conversations whilst she was in the bath, would be at risk. Their old boss would never allow such meetings to take place if he was to know about them, for they might be the precursor to breaking rule 12, even if there was no fear of that – Tony would not even look at her when she stepped out of the bath, he was her friend.

With that thought at the front of her mind, she cautiously disentangled herself from his arms and rolled off of him, not wanting to risk waking him up. The blanket that covered him when he slept on her sofa was folded on the arm of the chair opposite, freshly washed from the last time he had stayed over, less than a week before hand, and she took it and tucked him in, just like a mother would with her toddler. A caring expressing filled her face as she cupped his face with her small hand and brushed a light kiss over his forehead, just bellow his hairline. He was her best friend. She could see the toll that his promotion was taking on him and it killed her when she looked at the feint lines that creased his almost-innocent looking face as he slept. Even in sleep, Tony DiNozzo would never be able to look innocent. She looked down at him for one last, long second before turning the TV off and flicking the light out, making her way towards her bedroom, pausing by the door that separated it from the living room and fiddling with the knot of the terrycloth, pondering what would happen if she were to drop the towel that concealed her body, if he were to wake at that moment and actually look at her, instead of turning away. But then she knew it would not happen when his snoring broke the silence of the room, indicating that not even an earthquake would wake him from his heavy slumber. Even if he did wake, she knew that he was just her friend, her boss, no less, and for them to have anything other than the relationship that they had now would be unprofessional to say the least, and that was even if he returned her feelings, something she knew he did not. She sighed and shook her head to the empty room, releasing the towel and throwing it through the open kitchen doorway so it landed next to her washer before walking over to the couch in the dim light emanating from the window facing the street and picked up Tony's shirt from where it had been discarded, now dry, and slipped it on. She balled the ends of the too-long sleeves in her fists and inhaled the scent of him as she padded through to her bedroom, slipping under the covers and turning out the lamp on her bedside table before letting the last few inches of space in her head become overtaken by the thoughts that filled the rest of her head. The thoughts of her boss.

There are almost 450 words of Tony explaining Ziva's speed dial numbers there. Sorry about that. I sort of got carried away with myself, and probably went a little too detailed with that.

I think this one might be hanging out somewhere on the creepy scale. I myself have not had a conversation with anyone whilst in the bath since I was about three and my mother had to sit by me and make sure that I did not get the water everywhere, else it would leak through the ceiling.

For my reference: 44th NCIS fic.