Yeah, me again. :D I have no idea where this came from. I think it's just I've read so many fics where Tony gets down on one knee, and that's something so… traditional, part of me thinks he'd just skip that part. I mean, Tony and Ziva are hardly conventional, right? So I wrote this. I was genuinely awake at 1:00am this morning, writing this, because I had inspiration. Myeh.
Enjoy.
Disclaimer: You know you're obsessed with NCIS when you reference three movies in one hour, and you've never even seen those movies.
Listening to: Holocene by Bon Iver (for, like, the ten-millionth time).
"Clear."
"Clear."
"All clear here."
He strolls into the main room of the ground-floor, abandoned apartment, pushing his gun into his holster as he saunters across the dirty ground. Wiggling his eyebrows as his partner as she walks in, he sends her an extra-charming smile.
"Well David, you owe me five bucks. That's the third scene in a row that we've cleared in less than fifteen seconds."
"You are just lucky- all of the places we have been to today have been particularly small."
She tilts her head, narrowing her eyes and responding rather like a child.
He laughs in mock-outrage, the dancing light in his eyes betraying his façade. Shaking his head, the sunbeam from the window catches in his hair, and he outstretches his arm, gesturing with his hand that she should hand over the money, now.
"Nu-uh, Ziva, you're not getting away from this. Pay u-"
The shot is loud and startling, and he crumples like a sickening, lone ragdoll to the merciless stone floor. She spins, shooting three through the hooded man illuminated in the doorway, then rushes to her partner.
His head is pounding and spinning, warm, sticky liquid pooling at his crown. Bones and limbs ache dreadfully- his leg twisted oddly from having received most of the impact from falling. The bullet has hit him in the side; blood now oozing from the wound like water would a river.
She takes off her sweater, leaving only a thin t-shirt behind, and bundles up the material, applying pressure where she hopes it'll work. Needs it to work.
His mouth opens to speak on more than one occasion, but she raises her stained fingertips to tilt up his chin, gently moving his jaw.
Breathing becomes harder and harder- weak lungs becoming weaker by such a strain. He idly wonders whether he should make a speech- say some immortal dying words, etc. - but she shoots him a glare that barely conceals obvious worry, and he's left slightly stunned by it all.
Footsteps approach and he feels the pressure ease somewhat, then get re-applied, and he assumes someone's taken over. But all he can see is the out-of-focus ceiling, stretching and contorting out of shape.
Elevated, somehow, onto a gurney, he feels moist, sticky fingers slip into his and squeeze tight.
He succumbs to the inevitable.
Dark.
.
.
"You are an idiot, you know." she states- the first thing he hears after he wakes up.
Her words are harsh but her eyes are softened, and he can't quite bring himself to mention the dried tear tracks down her cheeks. Raising an eyebrow in confusion, he sees her nod before continuing.
"If you had not suggested we make bets on clearing the rooms, we would not have rushed the job. We would have been more... thorough. Because of that, we evidently missed the man who shot you."
Her tone is rather accusatory.
"You... said you would make it worth my while if I won."
His voice is weak and raspy; being the first things he's said since emerging from drug-induced, post-surgery sleep. She hands him a cup of water with a thin plastic straw. He drinks gratefully.
"That may be so, but I did not give you permission to get shot."
The room falls into silence yet again, and he takes another sip of drink.
"I missed you." she says quietly, her eyes trained on her hands and her seemingly fascinating fingernails.
He smiles softly, turning his head on the pillow to face her more directly.
"Hey."
He gets her attention, and she looks up in surprise.
"I love you. You know that. And I'm not going to leave you- especially if it involves getting shot in as tacky way as I just did."
She sniffles, nodding in acknowledgement of something he knows she already knew.
He yawns, muscles straining and aching and tired, and closes his eyes, nestling down into the surprisingly comfortable pillow and pulling his blankets closer. He feels her take his hand in hers, and hears her mutter a quiet 'I love you too,' just before he nods off again.
.
.
"Let's get you to bed." she says, and he raises both eyebrows in surprise and amusement. She reads his mind immediately.
"Oh no. You are far too tired to do anything that exerting, Tony. Rest and desk duty for three weeks, remember?"
He sighs, rolling his eyes.
"Yeah, I remember. No need to keep telling me."
It takes him a while to ascend the first flight of stairs to their apartment; every raised step seems to pull on his stitches more and more. However, the elevator offers welcome solace for the next four storeys, and he gratefully leans against the metal wall.
When he flops down onto the bed- gently, so as not to rip a stitch or five- he sighs, loudly and audibly, and Ziva pulls off his shoes, insisting he must do the rest himself.
They sit in bed, both rather comfortably, minutes later.
"I'm sorry."
"Why would you be sorry, Tony?"
"I know how worried you were." He reaches out and tucks a strand of hair behind her ear.
She chuckles at his comment.
"Oh, do not flatter yourself."
He turns more serious. "McGee told me. You didn't eat, Ziva- you didn't sleep. I mean, come on."
"Do you have any idea how it is to think you may never see the person you love, again?" Her gaze is focused on the wall behind him.
"Yes."
Her eyes snap to his, knowingly. She's about to apologize when he shakes his head, knowing what would be coming.
"Save it, Ziva, you don't need to be sorry. All I mean is, you gotta eat. We can't do this- go insane any time either one of us gets hurt. Where'd that leave us, huh?" He chuckles sadly, no humor contained in it, raising a hand to her face to wipe away a sudden, stray tear with his thumb.
They stay in silence for a while, his fingers brushing her skin whilst they gaze into each others' eyes and ponder what life would be like alone.
Horrible, he decides.
Eventually, he moves back, distancing himself partially from her to lean against the headboard with a satisfactory tired groan, even though it's still daylight outside.
"You should sleep." she tells him, and he looks to see her lying on her side, head propping her up by her elbow. Her eyelids swoop down in an elegant, long blink, and when she looks at him again he sees a myriad of emotions shining in her eyes.
He nods, mind made up.
Reaching to the side, he picks up a box from his bedside drawer. She looks at him inquisitively, sitting up and crossing her legs indian-style before nodding toward the box in his hand.
His response is simple, coupled only by a raising of his head and a flick of his wrist. The object flies through the air, turning and twisting until it tumbles to the ground.
"Catch."
She does, both hands clasping over the box. Looking at it for a long time, she seemingly studies it.
He wonders what she's looking at. It's a simple box, deep blue with a tight-shutting lid that makes a snapping sound when you close it; velvet covering with a small decorative pattern curled round the top rim.
She looks up at him briefly, eyes laden with emotions, before returning her focus to the object.
Her fingers curl round the top, prising the box open.
"Marry me, if you'd like." he says with a shrug and a smile, almost as if he is asking her a very casual question, not something that most definitely determines their future. She takes the ring out of its previous residence without hesitation.
Holding it up to her eye level, she grins at him before slipping it onto her finger determinedly.
"I would like that very much."
He smiles, indicating for her to move closer before promptly planting a short but entirely meaningful kiss on her lips.
He drifts to blissful sleep with the ring lightly pressing into his hand from where their fingers interlink.
There is a lovely button down there.