Before I retire for real—really real—I'm going through my files and pulling out all these short scenes that I wrote over the years that never really fit anywhere or turned into anything more than what they are. So that we don't drag this out for years (I literally have hundred of these in my files), I'll group them up in common themes and post a theme a week, with usually three short pieces—or glimpses—to each theme. At least, that's the intention.

Each short piece is unrelated to the others in the theme in terms of timeline or relationship status, so don't try to make sense of them that way. And they vary greatly in terms of quality, style and tone. Like I said, they're all unrelated.

Did any of that make sense? Read on. Hopefully it'll become obvious.

First theme: Sleepless.


Sleepless – Bullpen

Time creeps past midnight so quietly that it takes him an hour to notice. An email pops up in the bottom right of his computer screen, pulling his eyes to the clock, and when he realizes that tomorrow has become today he can't quite believe it. It's just him and Ziva in the bullpen now. Gibbs left a little while ago to start knocking on his contacts' doors when they wouldn't answer his calls, and Tony thinks he's probably having angry conversations with old men in their pajamas right now. McGee sequestered himself in the lab with Abby hours ago, and either he is still there or he's gone home to slip into pajamas himself. So it's down to the faithful Saint Bernard and his trusty ninja sidekick to get the job done. Except that now that he has snapped out of his file coma, he realizes he has developed a throbbing headache and his eyes have turned into sandpaper. Also, he's crazy hungry.

At the thought of food his stomach growls so loudly that Ziva pulls herself out of her own file coma and looks over at him.

"Was that you?" she asks, disbelief smothering her tone as the late hour hangs on her eyelids.

"My stomach," he tells her, providing assurance that the noise was contained inside his body. "I just remembered I haven't eaten since lunch." His stomach growls again, and he winces at the painful, empty feeling.

He expects her to make some cutting remark, even if just to tease. But she appears too tired for that. She pushes back her chair, moving out of the warm glow of her lamp and into the shadows for a moment before she stands slowly, as if testing the stretch of her aching back. She reaches for her coat and slides it on in slow motion.

"Come on," she aims at him, voice deep and raspy with the hour. But she doesn't explain what she is encouraging him to do.

"You're putting on your coat to raid the vending machine?" he guesses, and then shakes his head with flirtatious wonder. "Exactly how many Hershey bars are you planning to take?"

She tilts her head fondly as she approaches his desk and lifts his coat from the top of the four-drawer filing cabinet. "We need fresh air," she tells him. "And proper food." She holds her coat open for him like a chivalrous date. "Half an hour away from this will not matter."

He can't fault her logic, particularly when it works in his favor. He stands with a smile and spins to slide his arms into the coat, and Ziva positions it properly on his shoulders before her hands run from his shoulders down his arms. Before she gets to his wrists, she lifts them again and presses her palms against his upper back for just a moment. He wonders how a touch can be so chaste and yet so intimate, but that seems to be the way everything about their relationship goes.

Chaste, but intimate.

"Let's go."

They're quiet in the elevator, and their boots thud against the floor in soft unison as they cross the foyer. The guards on duty look up at the noise and nod in greeting before looking away again. He hits the big green button that opens the front door after hours, and they step out into the still morning. The air is cool and welcome against his cheeks, and the smell of the Potomac River familiar in his nose. Orange lamps cast light on the fog gathering above their heads. It will reach the ground by sunrise.

Hands buried deep in their pockets, they turn left and walk in step towards the 24-hour diner three blocks away. He enjoys the silence that has rolled in with the fog. There is traffic in the distance—engines on the surface streets and the docks nearby—but everything in their radius has gone to bed. It's calming. Rejuvenating. Hopeful. It seems obscene to break it with inessential discussion, but he can't help it. He likes talking to her, even when she's not in the mood. But he thinks that tonight, she will be.

"I wonder what my body would do if I suddenly started following regular sleeping and eating patterns," he begins, giving (soft) voice to a thought he's had dozens of times in the past. "Would it say, Hey thanks, let me remove that 15 pounds I've been holding onto as punishment for your lifestyle? Or would I have a heart attack when I can't adapt?"

"I sincerely hope it is the former," Ziva replies, taking his cue to keep her voice low. "I would not appreciate you having a heart attack."

He glances down at dark curls bouncing back from pink-tinged cheeks. "You wouldn't appreciate it?" How has she made his musings about her?

Ziva tips her head to the side in acknowledgement. "I am sure it would cause you a great measure of irritation as well," she allows graciously. "However I would have to deal with it."

They walk a few paces as he tries to wear her argument. "So, you think visiting me in hospital—should I survive this massive heart attack—would be worse than being the one to almost die? And who'll then probably have to undergo open heart surgery, spend six months recovering and change their entire life."

"You would survive," she says firmly, glancing up at him with an expression that dares him to argue. "Because it is likely that I would be with you when you had this heart attack, and I would give you CPR."

He smirks. "I appreciate that, Ziva. I'd give you CPR too."

She flashes him a smile that makes his stomach flip. "Thank you. And yes, sitting by your bedside while all this happened would be worse."

He feels a pang of affection for her before be turns wary. "Oh. Because you assume I'll be complaining the whole time?" It seems likely, both that he would complain and she would consider his complaining torture. But she shakes her head before her eyes find the sidewalk.

"No. Because until you are fully recovered, I would be in a constant state of panic that you would die."

The pang comes back. The woman has developed one hell of a soft spot for him over the years, and for that he will be eternally grateful. He responds by slinging his arm around her shoulders and squeezing her into his side for a few seconds.

"Then we better hope it's the 15 pounds."

She chuckles, and then puts a chilled hand on his belly and looks up at him with an expression that affectionately (at least to his eyes) teases his slowly softening physique. He takes no offense, but drops his arm, and they walk a few more steps in silent.

"I like you anyway," she tells him.

Warmth spreads through his chest. She likes him as he is—full of faults, failures and frailties—and he can't deny that it provides him a sense of peace.

He wears a small smile all the way to the diner.

Chaste, but intimate.

Sleepless – Tucson

Hot as balls.

In the third—or was it the forth?—summer that Ziva spent in Washington, she overheard a "dude bro" with overstuffed trapezius muscles and painfully red skin lament to his fellow bro that the day was "hot as balls". Without understanding the reference (back then, anyway), Ziva nevertheless understood his meaning. It was hot. Unpleasantly hot. Sticky, sweaty, stinky hot. And although she wasn't one to talk about balls at the drop of a hat, it was a phrase that had stuck with her and slipped into her thoughts whenever another unpleasantly hot day rolled around.

Without question, the day she had spent in Tucson on a case with Tony was hot as balls. And that heat had followed them out of the sun, into the evening and past sundown. She should be asleep now, resting up for an early flight home and another long day at work to follow. But she's not. Because the air conditioner is useless and it's hot as balls. And because she cannot get her head around this damn case, no matter how hard she tries. She tries to distract herself from the heat by turning the details around in her head over and over. By pulling them apart and trying to tie them back together in strange combinations. But all she ends up with is confusion and a sweaty brow.

The ping of her cell phone startles her enough to send another hot flush racing from head to toe, and she sits up on cheap and scratchy budget motel sheets to reach towards the blue glow.

U up?

Text message from her partner in the next room. She rolls her eyes—of course she is awake, and her frustration is so great she is sure he can sense it through the walls. She considers texting him back for a fleeting second, but in the next she is on her feet and reaching for her room key on the dresser. She is across the room and out the door in the next five, and she knocks on his door before ten seconds pass. He takes at least that long to open the door, shirtless with disheveled hair and flushed cheeks. His air con seems about as effective as hers.

"I kind of expected to see fire and brimstone raining down out here," he muses, moving aside to allow her entrance.

She walks past him and tosses her key on the dresser beside the TV before settling on the corner of his bed, legs crisscrossed and elbows on the inside of her knees. She lets out a sigh to communicate her mental state as he returns to bed and sits back against the headboard.

"This case is turning my head into a pretzel," she tells him, and then catches his eyes making a pass over her tank top and girlie boxers. Yet another flush rushes through her. He's seen her in less. Perhaps if she is very good, he'll have good reason to again.

"I think that's the point," he responds, dragging his attention back to where she supposes it should be. "Everyone involved seems to be going out of their way to be misleading."

She twists her hair and flips it over her shoulder. "I am so sick of people lying to me, Tony."

"You're a federal agent," he points out with half a smile on his lips. "You're just going to have to assume that's not going to change for the foreseeable future."

"Yes, but I do not have to like it," she grumbles.

He unfolds long legs and crosses them at the ankle. "I promise I will never lie to you about my involvement in a murder," he says easily, then grins.

Ziva scoffs and shakes her head, dismissing the idea that his confession would make a difference. "You would not be able to."

He shrugs a bare shoulder, giving up the fight immediately. "Probably. More like I'd be asking for your help to cover it up."

She smiles at how very wrong he is. "Tony, you would never cover it up," she states with complete confidence in her position. "You would own up to it immediately."

He has the gall to shake his head, but there is a smile in his eyes that acknowledges the truth, even if his mouth argues. "No way, Ziva. I'm an outlaw."

Nothing could be further from the truth, but she goes along with the idea for the simple novelty of it. "All right. I promise I will help you cover it up."

His head falls to the side with sweet appreciation. "You're the best."

She smirks and twists her hair back again as she wonders at the circumstances that would lead her partner with the moral compass astray. Then she remembers all the rules and laws he broke to drag her out of the desert, and her heart starts to ache.

He is not an outlaw. But he is loyal to the core, and he would do anything for his family. That could be his downfall one day.

"I promise I won't lie to you," he says out of the blue.

Her heart flips because this is undeniably the truth. His eye contact is made with a dozen short glances, so she knows he's pushing himself on this. And she gives him credit for that, particularly as she knows she hasn't always held up her end of that bargain. Her throat closes, and she swallows down the emotional obstruction.

"Not about anything important," he goes on, only after it's clear she's heard the vow for what it is. "I might lie and tell you you're a great driver, or that you don't look awful when you're sick. But those don't count."

She draws a deep, slow breath and returns as much honesty as she can stand. "I know I have not always excelled in this area. I know I am lucky you are you, because many—well, most—other people would have decided I am not worth the effort anymore. Or worth their trust. I promise I have been trying very hard to do better. With you."

He nods, and he's able to keep her gaze now that he feels he's on firmer ground. "I know you have," he says, and the assurance means a lot to her. He stretches a leg to tap her knee with his foot. "You're always worth the effort, Ziva," he tells her, voice weighed down by honesty. "And you always have my trust."

His words have an immediate effect on her. They lift her mood and her outlook. She is lucky to have him. Especially when other people lie to her every day. "You always have mine," she returns, and then enjoys the smile that sweeps across his face.

She could crawl over and hug him right now. Hug and kiss and love and thank. But she doesn't, because she never does.

She maintains the status quo.

Sleepless – Sorry

He's suffered his fair share of bad relationships. So has Ziva. Between them, Tony thinks they could fill an entire book with anecdotes on how things can fall apart and turn your life into a pile of crap. But they're not the champions of crap. Even between Wendy, Jeanne, Michael and Ray, and dozens of short-term dating adventures that hurt, humiliated or horrified, they still don't come close to the train wreck of Beau and Bindy Babineaux.

The husband and wife (for now) witnesses to a murder had spent the day under Tony and Ziva's watchful gaze at one of NCIS's remote safe houses. Half an hour after they'd arrived, Bindy discovered that Beau had been having an affair, and the peaceful woodland setting had been completely destroyed by a screaming match that Tony feared would literally bring the roof down. His and Ziva's first attempts at defusing the fight had been ignored (if they were even heard), and eventually they just sat at the tiny kitchen table and stared at the walls as the fight raged on above their heads.

Never in his entire career has he been happier for a shift change.

He and Ziva leave Gibbs and McGee at ground zero and hike off to a secondary location—another safe house nearby where they can rest for the night. The contrasting quiet allows space in his head for stunned introspection. Because some of the examples of bad behavior that Beau and Bindy Babineaux dug up and hurled at each other to underscore their crappy relationship hit a little too close to home. Tony isn't in a romantic relationship with his partner. Technically. Except that emotionally, he's pretty much committed to the idea. And technically, he thinks it's only a matter of time before things change.

Unless they kept doing mean and thoughtless things to each other.

He shifts his head slightly so that he can glance at her out of the corner of his eye. His partner lies three inches away under the sleeping bag they've turned into a double so they can 'share body heat'. She's staring at the ceiling with a shell-shocked expression, and he assumes this means that she's also personalizing the battle they just witnessed.

"Ziva?" His voice is small, perhaps to preserve the quiet. Or perhaps because he's not sure he should do this.

She blinks slowly and arches her eyebrows. "Hmm?"

He hesitates. Almost bites his lip. But forges ahead. "I want to say…I'm sorry I sometimes correct your words."

Ziva shifts under the sleeping bag, glances in his direction. He sees worry in her eyes, but it's worry born of understanding for where he's coming from. "Well, sometimes I get them wrong," she replies softly. It seems she is in a forgiving mood tonight. He will need to be as well. "I am sorry that sometimes I continue to fight with you over something stupid, just because I may enjoy annoying you."

He nods, and the corner of his mouth pulls back in a smile. Forgiving and honest. This has the potential to get scary. But it's necessary. "I mean, that's mutual," he points out, absolving both of them.

"I know."

He squeezes his eyes shut in momentary embarrassment. "I'm so sorry that my dad tried to grab your ass that one time."

"That is not your fault."

He shrugs. "Yeah. But he's never going to apologize, so…"

She chuckles, and it's clear she hasn't been harboring resentment about that one. Then she sobers. "I am sorry that there have been times when I did not come to you for help when I should have."

That one makes him want to punch the air in triumph. Because that's what he's always said. And he knows he's right. But it wouldn't be good form to rub that in her face. "Thank you," he says simply, sincerely.

"I know it bothers you—"

"Yes." He pauses before giving her back something he knows grates on her. "I'm sorry that some days I'm deliberately really loud and obnoxious."

"Well, those are the days that you feel the worst about yourself," she says with more insight than he expected. Although he supposes he shouldn't be surprised. "It is okay."

He turns his head to look at her. "How did you know that?"

She shrugs. Smiles. "Educated guess." Another pause. "I am sorry I am sometimes deliberately dismissive of you."

He offers her the same insight she provided to him. "You do that when your feelings are tender," he tells her gently. "When you don't want to be vulnerable in front of me."

There's a long pause, and he thinks she's going to deny it. But then he realizes she's trying to let herself be vulnerable. "I do not want to lean on you more than is…appropriate."

That hurts. But he gets it. He knows. But he rejects it. "You're my partner. You're supposed to lean on me."

"Not for everything."

He turns his head again and watches her closely. "Yes," he says clearly. "For everything."

She twists her lips into silence. It's one vulnerable step too far. But her hand sneaks across the void beneath the sleeping bag to slide into his, and that's a better response than he could ever hope for.

He gives her a moment to regroup, and finally, she grins. "I am sorry that I so often take a bite out of your lunch."

He tips his head back and groans. "Oh my God, that one kills me, Ziva!" he cries, and it's weird that this is the one that gets him so worked up. But he can't help it. "Why do you do that? Why do you think it's okay?"

Her shoulders shake as she laughs. "It is just to annoy you," she tells him with complete honesty.

"Cut it out," he tells her, leaving no room for misunderstanding. "Seriously. Don't mess with my food."

She holds up her free hand as if taking an oath. "Okay. I promise."

And so it goes. Apologies, absolutions, and mild admonishments. Hands grip tighter, laughs get louder, and chests get lighter. He could go on all night, but there comes a point where apologizing for every little thing detracts from his sincerity. And besides, they're not sorry for everything. They wouldn't be them if there were.

But one things remains.

"Tony?" She rolls to her side and he sees guilt in her eyes that hasn't been there until now. "I am sorry for that time when I said we were not friends."

His chest aches as ghosts from the past reappear.

"You are my best friend." Her voice wavers and her eyes water. She smiles quickly. Nervously.

She is vulnerable. So is he. It's why they lied about it in the first place.

"I know," he assures her. "You're mine, too."

Her smile spreads, and she launches herself impulsively at his side to hug him. He smiles into hair that smells both familiar and forbidden and squeezes her back as hard as she can stand.

He's sorry they didn't do this earlier.