The knock resounds throughout her apartment; it's light and unassuming. She knows immediately the person behind the wooden barrier is Tony. Her phone, perched on the coffee table, hasn't uttered a sound, so McGee or Abby are out of the question. Ducky is tending to the body, and the thought makes her eyes sting a little more.
Ziva rubs them uselessly and stands, blanket in her lap falling back to the couch.
Drafting air makes her shiver. A plain white shirt falls too loose around her upper thighs, and the cotton shorts she wears gap between her legs where the draw string is pulled as tight as it goes. Her hair hasn't been washed; she is absolutely positive she looks like the bottom of a shoe. There isn't a part of her she can discover that cares. Numb. She feels numb, and for the first time in years she is grateful she cannot summon the strength to adamantly try to be normal.
Trembling fingers vying for the metal chain, she finally manages to open it. He stares at her long and intent for a moment, and she exhales for exactly five seconds. After Somalia, her therapist had told her breath control was key to many things. She finds it may be the only thing holding her together.
She steps back, tilting her head inward as to signal his welcome. Ziva hates the look in his eye; the pity she sees there.
"Can I come in?" he asks her moderately.
Frustrated at his insistence, "Yes, Tony," she snaps, harsher than she'd intended.
He visibly flinches.
She swallows hard, guilt turning her stomach. "I am sor-
Tony shakes his head once, cutting her rebuke short, and walks in, not pausing to see if she's followed. She closes the door, and leans back against it.
"Why are you here?"
There's an edge to her voice. She knows he hears it.
The shrug of his shoulders is more than insensitive: it's insulting. It makes her want to pick up the nearest sharp object and stab him and for the umpteenth time she wonders how in the world a man like this could warrant such a reaction from her. She wonders where they stand.
"That is not an answer," she grinds out, warmth enfolding her cheeks at his nonchalance. His answer is bleak, nothing more than a statement. It cuts through her, salt in fresh wounds. It makes her want to wretch.
"Your father is dead."
A beat.
"How. Dare. You."
She spews a few choice words at him, resorting to her mother language as it be. Pushes past the emotions- enforces steel walls around them that are beginning to rust- pushes past ever fiber of her being that is begging her to give in, to go, to flee, to take his hand and press it to her cheek and-
The words are spilling before she has a chance to mop them up.
"You think you can parade into my home and insult me because you are- what- my partner? Why are you here, Tony? What did you expect to find? Mourning? I am glad he is dead. I am glad he is gone, because all he ever gave me was tears and hate."
A levee breaks.
Ziva gasps, sobbing once, twice, before clasping a hand over her mouth to muffle the sound. Her temples ache with pressure; she's barely cried and she's cried too much. She feels too much. She has too much pain and her hands won't cover it up and-
Sharp as a moonbeam, she thrusts forward, fully intent on seeking some kind of release.
Ziva slaps Tony with as much being as she can muster.
He staggers back from the force of the impact, managing to grasp her shirt at the last minute and pull her with him. In a moment on the brink of quake, he wraps his arms around her and holds. The hard wood is searing on his tailbone- but he doesn't mind it. Every minute detail has amounted to this:
Every look. Every touch. Every word.
It all comes down to that harbinger, that millisecond.
She has every right, every ability to fight him. To break his arm. To kill him with her bare hands. She doesn't.
On instinct, her hands go to his chest to push away. The material of his jacket is rough on her palms. A bright red hue is marring his cheek; she knows it burns.
Her eyes venture to meet his, and time halts.
What she sees there never leaves her.
Bracing against his chest, in that sudden movement, she digs her nails in and gives. Their teeth clash together painfully, but she adjusts as much as she can. His taste is burning bright in the pit she's fallen into; it's sharp and spicy and Tony.
He freezes.
She doesn't let him stop, moving to rest her hands on his shoulders and roll him backwards, his skull dropping back to the floor. She travels her ministrations to his jaw, to the hollow at the base of his throat, using her teeth to catch the skin there.
Tony groans loudly, and the mere idea of it makes her overheat.
"Tony," she murmurs. "Tony, Tony,Tony."
She thinks he's enjoying himself.
That's why she doesn't expect it when he shoves her off of him, causing elbows to support the brunt of her weight. Curls tumble around her face, and she can't quite meet his eyes. Everything draws painfully still and quiet.
He licks his lips and snorts at something. A steady bass- heart racing the sinewy flesh of her breasts. Her nipples are painfully erect, straining against the material.
When he speaks, he speaks slowly, like he's explaining something tedious to someone very young.
"We can't do this right now."
It's hard to understand, even then. "Why not?"
Ziva loathes the way she sounds. Like a child, weak and unsure. Vulnerable.
Finally meeting his eyes, she takes note that he's smiling at her. Smiling. As if anything is humorous. As if anything is light.
"Because," he tells her gently, choosing his words carefully. "We need to do this for the right reasons."
She blows air between her lips, and allows her gaze to wander over his throat, the coloring of his cheeks, the bulge in his jeans. Makes a decision.
Languidly, Ziva shifts her weight to settle on her knees, and deliberately takes his face in her hands. His nostrils flare, eyes widening- she almost laughs at how easy this could be, winding him up. It's always been this easy, she realizes.
He's just never had the opportunity to react.
She'll be damned if she lets him bring morals in this late in the game.
"Tony," all but a whisper. "Please."
She presses her lips against his again, and he doesn't pull away, but he does bring his large hands up to hold her waist- she takes that as permission.
His tongue slips into her mouth and she thumbs the hem of her shirt, breaking the kiss to pull upward. She watches ever word leave him.
It's a rare occasion that Tony DiNozzo is rendered speechless.
The thought crosses her mind that this definitely isn't the place, and she listens to rationality. Putting space between them, she moves lithely to her feet, knees threatening to buckle, and takes his hand to help him up as well.
Casually, she brushes his jacket of his shoulders, listening to the rustle of fabric as it falls to the floor. His eyes are liquid depths, anticipation swimming in blue and green- she has no words. She takes what he gives.
She takes.
It's a foreign sensation.
It's welcome.
His fingers burn into the flesh of her bare hipbones, trailing up to caress the underside of her breasts. Her chest moves beneath his hands. The way he relishes in her, gauging her as an ancient relic the universe has never seen, like-
"Beautiful," he murmurs, and swipes a calloused thumb over her sensitive skin.
She falls apart accordingly. His hair is soft in her grasp, she pulls him down to suck his bottom lip with fervor. Paying no mind to the tender of his knees, he bends them to squeeze the backs of her thighs, the ones she wraps around his waist as he hoists her up against him.
He unintentionally staggers against the nearest wall, and she laughs- God, that's the best sound in the world.
"Bedroom," she jests in between sucks against his mouth.
He doesn't hesitate to comply with the request.
Hands explore the course of her he has access to as the door to her room bangs against its hinges and he tumbles onto the soft surface of high thread count sheets with her. The bed is made, which is very Ziva.
He can't think on that too much. Only releasing her to toe of his shoes, she's quick to follow suit, crazed and ready, deftly making work of his shirt. It takes her a moment to comprehend she's pulling at it the wrong way-
Something rips.
Nimble fingertips play with the hair on his chest, jerking him back down with her. When he recognizes her attentions reorganizing to his fly, something within him kicks in- he'd like to believe it's the logical head. Really, he just cares.
"Ziva, wait. Do you have any-"
"Taken care of," she manages, breathy lilt undeniably the hottest thing he's heard in a long time. Chests weighed by imagined slights, heaving together, it takes a long time to wrap his mind around the fact Ziva goes after his jeans with such tremulous energy. Wanton.
When she presses her breasts up against his chest, he gets the idea, and moves to his back to let her do what she pleases. He leans forward to bury his hands in her tangled locks, allowing her to sit astride him.
She works her hips in a systematic fashion, the heat of her core searing through the medicinal fabric covering them- he doesn't know where she learned, but she's good. She's better than good, she's fantastic, and watching her grind against him, breasts bouncing in tandem, the ultimate epiphany drops.
She's all he's ever wanted, and he literally can't get enough.
Tony snakes a hand between them to push aside her cotton shorts, and looses his breath. Ziva giggles at the notion, but it cuts short when he rubs her outright, stomach coiling and mouth going deliciously dry.
Dry, she thinks hazily. Everything she is not.
Determined to even the playing field, she finds the will within her to tug the boxer shorts down, eyes darkening at the sight of him springing free. She strokes the length of him, running her thumb over the head before-
She's beneath him again, his weight looming over her, his erection straining against her thigh. Moaning at the feel of fingers settling away from foreplay, sinking within her to stretch and press and then leave her cold and wanting-
With a strangled cry, he buries himself within her.
Waves crashing against the shoreline soothed, still-
Her pupils are blown- his eyes are for her, only her- and she would have never thought in her lifetime she could feel this full of anything- not only physical but everything-
Life has reduced to that look in his eye.
When he adjusts his palms to rest on either side of her head he unintentionally slides deeper, snapping the chord and causing her imminent reaction- she arches, throwing her head back and squeezing her eyes shut, gasping.
Tony begins to move, then.
He lets his lips move to the space just over her collarbone and sinks his teeth into the pliable flesh, rocking his hips in a steady rhythm. The cant of his form gains ample space for him to brush along where she's most sensitive- it takes every ounce of him to last long enough so she can make it to the end too.
Ziva has never known bliss, but she finds it in the sharing of this; whatever this is.
When she crumbles, all it takes is a sharp pinch, calculated and messy.
When she crumbles, he follows, mouthing words into her skin that don't wax poetic, but they're enough. When she crumbles, she takes what little self she has left and give it to him because at this point they're too together to fall apart and too stubborn to want anything but everything.
She crumbles because she knows he'll be there to pick up the pieces she can't catch.
O
The sheets are cool against her naked body and the smell that permeates the air is of toast and maybe eggs- she inhales deeply.
Eggs with cheese.
Her eyes are swollen from crying and she definitely doesn't smell pleasant, the ache in her muscles all too apparent when she rolls onto her back and stretches to awaken her nerves. Ziva stares at the ceiling and takes it all in.
Rolling to the balls of her feet, a smile tugs her lips upward when she slips into his shirt instead of her own, finding a pair of underwear in her drawer and slipping them on as well. She pads into the kitchen- she finds the line of his form easily.
Something within her is warm.
Happiness, maybe.
She doesn't startle him, and a part of her almost wants to congratulate him on that. He turns off the stove and pivots to gaze at her keenly.
She thinks she might love him.
Binding, passionately love him- possibly more than she's ever loved anyone else. The thought isn't a light one, but it's there, burning within her, a fire that will not be put out with time or words. Regardless of the fact a million little things have been shattered, he is a solid ground. He is what she has, and cherishes that.
She cherishes him.
His grins, and she thinks he might cherish her too.
"Good morning, sweet cheeks."