Eek. I've been away for so long and I genuinely have no excuse. And I know I said I'd finish up Airport last weekend, but I've gotten all disheartened with it, so I've got the chapter, it just needs tweaking and posting. That'll probably be during this week, sometime. Probably. :P
Anyways, this and another fic were bugging me, but the other one was angsty and I needed something happier today. So I finished this up this afternoon, after writing it at a quarter-to-four this morning, lol. Hope you enjoy it!
Disclaimer: You know you're obsessed with NCIS when you and your sister's friend launch into a discussion about Tiva, and you've only met the friend twice.
Listening to: She will be Loved, by Maroon 5.
For Sophie, who wanted to see Ziva in Tony's arms. This is the best I could do for now.
He wonders when all her things turned up in his apartment.
He'd never really noticed- first a toothbrush, then shampoo, then the odd item of clothing-, until she calls him one morning, asking him to deliver her hairbrush. He knows exactly where it is; he stood on it that morning as he exited the shower. So he dresses and picks her up on the way to work, handing over the item along the way.
And yet as they both return that evening, he can't help noticing how many of his things are actually… hers.
There are candles on his coffee table, a vase of flowers by them. Books of many languages and genres lay strewn both on his shelves and his floor- more often than not he'll pick up a paperback and put it on the dresser. Movies that aren't to his particular taste sit amongst his collection, the odd DVD still sitting in the machine by his TV. She's adopted the bedside table on her side of the bed, a constant glass of water placed there; her weapon more often than not lying in the small drawer of the stand.
And then, of course, there's her.
She lies on his couch and rests in his arms, sleeping or talking or smiling or loving. It's in the moments like that, when her presence is so strong- both through her literal being there and her scattered possessions- that he really does wonder when she took over his now-incredible world.
But it does make it easy when he asks her to move in with him.
000000
He's not sure when she started looking so good in his shirt.
It's a habit she started pretty early on; in the morning- or afternoon or evening, and night-, she'd just pull on whatever shirt he'd taken off previously, rather than dress in her own clothes.
And of course, he had noticed how hot she looked, but he has no clue as to when she got stunning.
He can't help but rake his eyes over her; from legs that go on for miles, to oh-so-soft skin of honey and olive colours, to deep brown tresses that fall just so over the collars of hisdress shirt. She's positively glowing, he thinks, as she stands by the stove, cooking breakfast despite his not asking. She hums along to a tune on the radio and swings her hips in time, and the shirt lifts up just that little farther.
Then as she turns to greet him with a smile that can only be described as beaming, she moves forward and kisses him.
Yes, he's definitely not sure when she started looking so good in his shirt. But he's noticed now.
000000
He can't remember when he developed such a fascination with her hair.
Over the years, she'd changed its style and had it cut, and grown it long, and added highlights, or straightened it, or kept it curly. And yet, despite its frequent altering and the almost-decade that has settled between them, he can't quite place when it truly got to him.
When they were undercover, he got to hold the unruly curls away from her face as he kissed her. When she had nearly been shot and he'd wanted to make her smile, her hair had been parted differently and hanging by her eyes, messed strands matching her apparent messed mind. In LA, it'd been straight and sleek, large sunglasses keeping it out of her vision and making her look, simply, hot. Whilst in Israel, the locks were scraped up tightly into a ponytail that looked too painful to be bearable. In Paris, she'd straightened it smoothly once more, but had had to tie it up, and he mourned the loss. With Werth, it had been straight but pulled back, shining in the light as she bit her finger in a near-irresistible manner. As they mourned Mike, she'd tied her hair in a once-tight bun that came loose anyway, strands sticking to her tearstained cheeks- subconsciously childlike and crushed.
Yet with him, there is no style. He'll now run his hands through it repetitively, or hold it from her face once more, or still look at how it shines in the light. But being decidedly observant, he notes how, if possible, she looks so much more... free, with him, than she does normally at work. And still, it intrigues him, because he's not quite sure what she'd be without her hair.
And he really can't remember when he became so fascinated with her hair.
000000
He's not sure when he fell in love with her.
Yeah, he's thought about it a hell of a lot of times, but he's never managed to reach a conclusion.
He knows it wasn't love at first sight. Not only is that a cliché something he doesn't think he believes in, but he genuinely knows it's not the case with the two of them.
Immediate attraction, yes. She toyed with her hair and slouched provocatively whilst looking at him with a wandering gaze, and he had a desire to follow her back to her hotel for a reason that was certainly not innocent. But anything past a few nights- maybe even one- wouldn't have interested either of them. In the end, she left not soon after and he never got to see her hotel room.
The attraction was there, too, when they were undercover. But those nights seem so far away now that even he can't quite remember everything now. Either way, he knows he didn't love her then. Had her back, cared about what happened to her, yes. Apart from that, there was almost nothing. Almost.
When Gibbs had retired, they'd spent many a night together. And whilst, like their undercover mission, the details are fairly fuzzy on his behalf, there had been more feelings at stake that summer. It hurt to take the assignment, actually; it had felt rather like throwing their entire relationship away. When he had gone to Jenny, voicing his doubts to his abilities, she'd told him to think about it. And he did. And the guilt that filled him after he missed night after night was unimaginable. But he knows he didn't love her- he'd fallen too easily later on.
In her apartment, gun in hand and blood rushing from another man's wound, he touched his neck and thanked anyone that was listening, for the fact that he was still alive. She sent him a look along with a choked, shouted order, and he wondered just what the strange feeling was in the pit of his stomach.
On painful concrete, his arm throbbing with pain and her looming over him, he realized what that feeling was. Jealousy. Not because she loved some other man and not him, necessarily, but because she cared so little for her own partner; she gave another man so much more attention.
But it wasn't love. Yet.
A sinking feeling, rather like a ship, he supposes, filled him as he stumbled to the elevator with little regard for anything at all. The world was still spinning but it felt like his was falling down.
That was when something clicked.
And yet, he thinks one day as she sleeps softly in his arms, he can't quite place a time on it. On when he knew- just knew- that he loved her. But he knows he doesn't need to. He does love her, and that's all that matters.
000000
He knows exactly when he decides he wants to spend the rest of his life with her.
She's sitting by his side on the couch, pizza slice balanced in her hand as her eyes stay trained on the TV screen. Her feet are up on the coffee table, heels resting by a book of hers that lays on the surface. She's only wearing his shirt- a large top that was too big for even him-, the sleeves rolled up slightly and the waist resting just above her knees. His fingers twist round a curled strand of her hair, and he sees the smile that decorates her lips. He doesn't think he's ever loved anyone so much- he knowshe hasn't.
And it's then.
Ooh, review button.