Title: What Your Heart Wants
Author:Billyspengrl / Some1lostme
Rating:General
Pairing:Tony / Ziva
Summary: While taking care of an injured Tony, Ziva comes to a realization. This is pretty fluffy and I really didn't mean for it to be but I couldn't get the idea out of my head.
Disclaimer:I do not own any part of NCIS... I only wish that I did.
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--You are staring at the pile of dirty clothes in front of the washing machine and you are suddenly overcome with the desire to kill your partner. You had volunteered to assist Tony in cleaning his apartment (he was injured and you felt guilty) and in exchange, he had offered you the use of his washer and dryer. At least this would save you a trip to the laundry mat. You are still regretting your decision.
"Tony, when was the last time that you even thought about doing your laundry?" you shout down the hall.
When you'd left him, he was half asleep on the couch with the television on. He doesn't respond and you roll your eyes, the painkillers must have kicked on. In, Tony's voice says in your head. You roll your eyes again. You begin loading his white clothes into the washer and it is only half full when you finish (most of his clothes are colored). You eye your own basket of dirty clothes. For some reason, the idea of mixing your clothes with Tony's feels very intimate and you hesitate for a long moment. In the end, you add your whites to the load, pouring in some detergent before closing the lid. You spend a few minutes sorting the rest of the clothes, making the decision that mixing your clothes with Tony's will inevitably save time, before heading back out to the living room.
You find him in the exact same position that you'd left him in, sprawled out on the couch, one arm behind his head and the other, the one that had been grazed by a bullet, draped across his chest. You find yourself watching him sleep, amazed at how peaceful and calm he seems.
It is still nagging at you, that feeling that you have had now for three days, the feeling that Tony being shot is entirely your fault. Gibbs had sent the two of you out to Falls Church to retrieve a suspect in the double murder that you were working and you had insisted that Tony let you drive. You had arrived in one piece (although Tony still complained about having whip-lash) but as you'd been walking toward the front door, the suspect inside had opened fire, the first round hitting Tony's left arm just as you'd playfully shoved him up the front steps. You had been lucky, both of you reacting quickly, taking cover behind a group of trees in the center of the yard. You had managed to call for back up and an ambulance just as Tony fired off the shot that wounded your suspect. By the time the local police and paramedics had arrived, you had handcuffed the suspect to the railing on his front porch and Tony was sitting in the street, leaning against the rear bumper of the car.
The rest of the day had been a blur of paperwork and interrogation. Gibbs' had you bring the suspect back to the Navy Yard before dismissing you to the hospital and you had stayed with Tony until he was released, high on adrenaline and painkillers. You'd driven him home and had been with him ever since. That was two days ago.
You look around the rest of the apartment, warm evening sun leaking through the window and you wonder if you can go for a late run without Tony noticing. Not that he would mind, he has been telling you ten times a day every day that you can go home, that he really can take care of himself, but you just cannot bring yourself to leave him yet. You want to make sure that he really is all right.
Deciding against running, you move to the kitchen, rummaging through the fridge for something to have for dinner. You are in the middle of preparing spaghetti when Tony clears his throat behind you.
"You still here, Probie?" he asks.
You roll your eyes (again), "Of course. I told you that I am not going to leave you here, Tony, not until I know that you are capable of feeding yourself, at least."
He frowns, moving until he is standing right behind you, looking over your shoulder at the stove. He sniffs and you can feel his breath on your face. If you turn your head just a fraction to the right, you know that you could kiss him easily and your heart rate has suddenly accelerated.
"Smells good, is it almost done? I'm starving."
You cannot keep the grin off of your face for some reason and you are suddenly embarrassed at the way that you are reacting to him.
"Soon," you say, stirring the sauce on the stove with slightly more force than necessary, "Sit down."
He does as you ask and you can feel his eyes on you as you move around his kitchen. You pull down plates from one of the cabinets and pile his with food, sitting it on the table in front of him before going back to make your own plate. When you sit down across from him he smiles at you before he begins eating. You cannot help wondering why being here is Tony is having this affect on you. You have spent the last two days cooking for him and cleaning up after him and you have even had to help him dress (and undress) more than once. But even after all of that, you are in no hurry to go home.
"Zi, you okay?" Tony's voice draws you back to reality and you realize suddenly that you were staring at him.
You immediately look down and start moving food around on your plate.
"I am fine," you tell him.
He does not question your answer and you finish dinner in silence. He leaves the table first, disappearing into the living room again. You clear the table, depositing the left-overs into storage containers and placing them in the fridge before you load the dishwasher.
When you finally make your way out to the living room, Tony has resumed his position on the couch. You move to walk past him, heading toward the chair under the window, when his hand on your arm stops you. You glanced down at him as his hand slides from your elbow to your fingers and he struggles to sit up. You help him, pulling him up slowly and sit down on the couch in the spot he has just made for you. When you are comfortable, your sock-covered feet propped up on his coffee table, he lays back down, most of his upper body stretch across your thighs. He is still holding onto your hand and you do not argue as you settle in beneath him, letting your free hand come to rest in his hair. You try to pretend that you are watching the movie ("Sixteen Candles, John Hughes? Oh come on, it's a classic!") but you cannot keep your mind off of the man lying beside (and on top of) you.
You want to laugh at yourself for thinking that mixing your laundry felt intimate. Tony is lying across your lap and holding your hand and you cannot stop thinking that this is what you want. That this is the most at home you have felt since returning from Somalia.
Your heart is aching but you know that it is a good ache, that it is simply because you know that this (Tony) is what you want. The only thing that you have to do now is tell him. You glance down at him and even though his eyes are closed, you know that he is not asleep.
"Tony," you say softly.
"Hmm," he breathes, eyes still closed.
"I do not want to go home," you tell him, not sure what else you are prepared to say.
He is quiet for a long moment and you know that he is trying to process your words carefully. When he opens his eyes and looks at you (ireally looks/i), you know that he understands what you are trying to say. He squeezes your hand a little harder than necessary and asks, "You're sure?"
You take a moment before answering, knowing he is giving you time to back out, to take back what you said, but you do not want to.
"I am sure," you tell him.
He smiles at you and allows his eyes to slip closed, "Okay."
You smile to yourself, running your fingers through his hair, and close your own eyes.
"Okay."
The End