Hello, dear readers! I posted this a week or so ago over on that other site with the pretty pictures, I just tweaked it a little bit here and there. It's a speculative drabble for Berlin to join all the rest. Not particularly revolutionary and not even what I necessarily think is going to happen anymore...but I offer it up here as a way to pass a few minutes until it's time to watch Berlin. Oh, and it goes without saying: If you haven't seen the promo for Berlin, you shouldn't read this! Enjoy.

Disclaimer: Yeah, not mine. The song isn't mine, either, it belongs to the Gershwins, but do I win something if I guess correctly?

Someone to Watch Over Me

"To Berlin," Tony offers up a toast as Ziva scans the bar. If this were a real, on-the-books mission with Gibbs' voice barking in his ear and Tim scanning the monitors for any hint of untoward behavior, Tony would've ordered a club soda sans vodka. Tonight, though, NCIS is an ocean away and they left the rulebook on the tarmac of Dulles. So, he orders them each a martini. Extra dirty. Seems fitting. Besides, they could use something to take the edge off.

For a moment, Ziva ignores his bid for attention. She's on a mission now, after all, and focused in a way he's never seen before. It's kind of scary, actually, and a definite throwback to her Mossad days, before she learned it was okay to take a breather once in awhile. He is a firm believer in breathers and breaks and moments of levity. Contrary to popular opinion, they're not just a way to procrastinate or goof-off or break the tension; they work just as well to give your brain a freakin' rest, to keep you loose, and to give a random stroke of genius the chance to strike. So since Ziva has gone all revenge-tunnel vision and isn't likely to pause until she's put herself in Bodnar's warpath, he knows it's up to him to keep pushing at her like this. It's why Gibbs sent him, after all. Because as long as he can get his Ziva, their Ziva, back with a joke or a smile, even if it's only for a moment, then they haven't lost her yet.

So he toasts their mission and waits for his remark to push its way through Ziva's crowded mind. It does, a moment later, and then she's looking up at him with wide, perplexed eyes. She blinks down at the drink he ordered for her then shoots him another questioning look when she gets a whiff of the alcohol. He just shrugs.

"To Berlin," she murmurs, tipping her glass back at him in a slight yet elegant gesture that somehow does not sacrifice any alcohol to the floor. He watches her sip the martini, enchanted by the play of lights across her hair and down that exquisite dress she's wearing. Distracted by not just her beauty, but the ebb and flow of emotions in her eyes, an endless war between anger and fear, determination and regret. He's mesmerized It's a mistake, obviously. A quick, harsh look from his partner reminds him of that.

"No sign of him yet," Tony states the obvious, tossing back a good half of his drink. This isn't the sort of night that lends itself to nursing a round. Ziva's jaw tightens; her nails click against her glass, spilling some liquid on the floor.

"My contact said…" she begins with no shortage of agitation in her voice but the rest of her thought is lost as she bites down on her lip and stares at the entrance with an intensity that will blow their cover the second their target enters the bar. She's strung as tight as he's ever seen her. His own muscles ache just looking at her. The next sip of his cocktail is taken for courage and it is with great reluctance that he leaves the dredges of the martini on the bar. He registers the tempo of the music switch and notices a few more couples crowd the dance floor. The bar looks mostly like a club but with the addition of a few velvet couches and a fancy drink menu is reaching for speakeasy. Since they arrived, the room has been filled with nothing but generic lyrics over an incessant bass line as the few patrons who began their night either early or quickly flailed around on the dance floor. But remixed pop has given over to style and now the DJ plays a slow, jazzy tune instantly recognizable to Tony.

"C'mon," he nudges her, jerking his head in the direction of the couples gathering together. Ziva snaps her gaze up at him, telegraphs annoyance, then resumes her watch on the door. Tony frowns. "Ziva," he whines her name before settling into his Senior Agent tone, "if looks could kill, Bodnar would be DOA. But they don't and so you're just going to scare him off the moment he walks in the bar. I thought we were supposed to blend."

There's a long moment wherein Ziva decides whether or not to argue with him. In the end, though, she concedes his point by gulping down a healthy amount of her martini before setting it aside on the bar. She fidgets with her hands as struggles to find her cover—just another woman on a date, trying to wind down on a Friday night. A few quick blinks and her whole body relaxes just enough for the outside observer not to be alarmed or concerned.

"You are right," she sighs. "It is still early yet."

Her eyes remain trained on the door.

Catching the music in his ears again, Tony gets an idea.

"They're playing our song," he grins, extending his hand out to her.

Ziva turns to him, her eyes beautifully befuddled. He doesn't let her ask the question on her lips before he catches her hand in his and drags her out onto the dance floor. His hand goes firmly to her waist and pulls her close; he tries not to focus on how perfectly she fits against him. Ziva's body flows into a complementary position with ease, her body starting to sway to the beat before she can voice her protest.

"Tony, what are you doing?"

"Dancing," he teases. "Because no one would buy me as your date if I didn't ask you to dance."

Leaning into him a bit, she allows a chuckle. "I do not recall you asking."

The tempo picks up and he spins them around so she can get a sweeping view of the room. "How's that?"

"Oh," she says softly, "lovely."

He pulls back reflexively because he meant to ask how the view was, not the dance. But Ziva looks lost in her head again and for a totally different reason this time—gone is the edge of pain, the masque of grief. In their place he sees something more wistful and it makes him tug her just a little closer.

He must throw off some vibes of confusion because she rushes to explain. "My father and I…we danced to this song once."

And then the rest of the room falls away and Bodnar could show up that very instant with every other man on their Most Wanted list in his entourage and Tony wouldn't give a damn. Because all that matters for that moment, for as long as it can take Sinatra to croon out a line, is Ziva, his partner, the stunning woman in his arms who looks up at him with a face so open, so tender, that it takes all his willpower to keep his feet moving and not to stop and enclose her in his arms completely.

"It is a great song," he replies, shaking off the heavy feeling, "fitting."

She averts her gaze, doing a quick scan of the room before bringing her eyes to rest on a point just over his shoulder. Her fingers pick at the fabric near his elbow. But she doesn't move away from him physically, so he takes that as a good sign. A sad smile draws the corners of her lips up.

"Hmm," she nods. "Perhaps. At the time, I did not believe my father could do any wrong."

"And now?"

She shrugs and studies his face. The intensity in her eyes makes his breath catch in his throat. "I know that was naïve. That my father had many faults, some I still struggle to forgive. But that does not matter. He was still my father."

"Yeah," he agrees, because what else is there to say?

The final verse kicks in and Ziva seems to have forgotten her mission as she melts into him, her head lowering to his shoulder. Tony picks up her slack, surveying the room over her head. Finding it clear, he allows his eyes to drift closed as he savors holding his partner so close.

"Did you mean it, Tony? About this being our song?" Her words can barely be heard above the music. He looks down, meeting her eyes and knows now without a doubt that Berlin will be their Paris.

"Well," he begins, "I don't want to step on any toes… There are so many other options."

Ziva grins against his jacket. When his eyes linger on the sight a moment too long, she gives his arm a pinch, reminding him of their primary objective. He does a quick check of the room before looking down at her again, satisfied with that; she sighs as another song begins. It's not meant to be a slow dance, but she seems content with the delicate sway he's leading them in.

"No," she decides, wrapping her arm around his neck now, "I think it fits us."

"Me too," he agrees and their decision fills him with a sudden happiness. He's trying to rein in his smile when he catches sight of some new arrivals to the bar. And that's all it takes to bring him back to the ground again. Sensing his mood shift, Ziva lifts her head and follows his gaze. He feels her stiffen in his arms.

"He's here," she states, all contentment locked down under a veil of resolve.

A surge of adrenaline washes away his overwhelming disappointment for yet another moment lost. He's her partner and they have a job to do. And as he waits for her to make the next call, he reminds himself that all is not lost completely because they have a song now. And a dance. And whatever else happens, they will always have Berlin.

Won't you tell him please to put on some speed
Follow my lead, oh, how I need
Someone to watch over me

Good night, lovlies! Hopefully, I will see you again soon if we all survive the impending epidemic of feels! Godspeed, Tiva fans!