Her gold dress glitters in the bright lights of the streetlight over their heads, the sparkles send quick flashes of light across the fabric of his suit and the stark white of his shirt. She moans quick breaths into his mouth as he leans over her to kiss her.

The alcohol is burning through his blood, he can practically feel the tequila pulsing through his veins. His skin is on fire. He's been drunk before, hell, he spent eighty percent of his college career completely hammered, but he's never felt like this before. He's been with girls before, of course he has, but he doesn't remember this burning. He hasn't been this drunk in a while—maybe five times since those crazy college parties that followed his team's basketball victories. He had learned then how to map it out, how to count his drinks and measure his drunk and know the level that he will forget the night the next morning.

Tony knows how drunk he is now—he's wasted, but he doesn't think he will ever be able to forget the way her heartbeat is pulsing beneath his fingertips, the way her curls are dusting against his neck.

He slides his hands up the smooth tan skin of her legs, tickling her soft thighs. She starts kissing his neck, up his chin, nibbling on his earlobe. His hands hit the strap of her thigh holster and he stills his hands from their movements upwards and he remembers.

He had almost forgotten the mission. Had almost forgotten their undercover assignment with the drug dealers and the Russian mercenary in the bar they had been drinking with. Gibbs orders hadn't been clear: get it done were the last words their boss had ordered before he had stormed from the bullpen with a coffee in hand and a scowl on his face. It had been McGee who had planned their covers as secondary drug dealers and had set up their meet at the club. There had been a lot of drinking and Ziva had taken over the dart board to claim the Russian's attention. It had worked: he had invited them into his private room to chat and they had almost gotten the drug dealers buyers and the name of the dead sailor he had sold too—before Ziva's short dress and the tequila had forced Tony to push open the outside door to breathe in the cold October night air.

She had followed him—of course—and it didn't take long for them to be in their current position: her lithe form pressed against the metal fence that closed off the alley behind the club.

He shakes his head, clearing his mind of Gibbs and McGee and NCIS cases. His hands start moving again, slipping under the edge of her dress to massage her skin on her upper thighs, his fingers slipping between her legs.

There's a shout behind him, and Tony breaks off the kiss to crane his neck around to stare into the darkness of the night that clouds his vision and sends his other senses into overdrive. He can't see the man but he can see the glint off the gun. He's sure Ziva can see it too—she probably knew the man was there before he even set foot outside the door. However, she doesn't seem particularly worried as she leans forward again to seal the difference between them and capture his lips with hers.

He finally has to separate them when the man with the 357 Magnum starts stepping forward to aim to gun towards Ziva. Tony pushes away from her, grabbing her small hands to keep her and her temptation away from him.

It physically hurts to be away from her. But she just sends him a flirty grin and takes a step back, her heels loud against the pavement in her movement. The metal gate behind them clanks as she leans back against it. She's completely calm, hooded eyes: she barely even glances at the gun in the man's hand before she turns to face him again, biting her lip suggestively as she meets his eyes.

The man's voice is harsh in the quiet of the night. "You need to come with me." He orders. His voice is gravely, sounds like sandpaper in Tony's ears. The hangover looms in his mind as he turns fast to look again at Ziva.

"Why?" She answers without breaking his gaze. She is so drunk he can practically smell the tequila when she speaks. She looks sexy as hell, though, especially when she spins fast as lighting and then sends her heel flying into the man's revolver. The man's too surprised to do anything but stare when she pulls her own gun to aim between his eyes. Tony doesn't have handcuffs on him—he's got nothing in his pockets but lint and his bottle opener—but he sends a right hook into the man's nose that sends him stumbling back and then falling to the ground, out cold.

She breathes out a laugh when he reaches for her, her giggles sounding like breathy static in his ear. "That was really hot." She says, and he almost doesn't recognize her. She's still Ziva, but she's undercover, and oh-so-drunk.

He won't remember this in the morning, neither will she. So he just takes advantage of the moment… and leans in to kiss her again.

This popped into my head yesterday when I saw the picture (look at the picture for the story) and I just had to write about it. Let me know how I did? Review!