Blame a stupid smutty GIF on Tumblr for this! Yes, I am still working on The Violet Hour. Progress is slow but once I start posting it again I hope to have it mostly if not fully complete so I can post quickly. Thank you for your patience and interest! I hope you enjoy this digression... I meant to write a drabble, I swear, but I can't not sometimes, you know? I just need my babies to be happy is all. Anyway, ENJOY!
DISCLAIMER: I mean, I guess I don't own them but it's not like GG claims to either so.
You take two bodies and you twirl them into one
Their hearts and their bones
And they won't come undone
Hearts and bones
-Paul Simon
Tony comes home late. He doesn't expect the apartment to still be dark, but it is. More so than the absence of light, the startling emptiness of the space unsettles him.
This is surprising. For so many years he has craved the solitude of his home. Usually he has wanted nothing more at the end of a long day than to settle into its stillness, the four walls shielding him from the steady forward progress of a life he isn't always sure he is keeping up with. In his apartment the status has remained quo. Take-out, movies, and whiskey: lather, rinse and repeat with a healthy dose of brooding and regret. Loneliness has been a familiar, constant ache that has long before ceased to be a pain.
Not so much anymore.
The same four walls enclose his life. But within this perimeter, things have bloomed and multiplied. She has returned to him. Life continues apace but now he feels involved, like he is moving along too. Since she has come back, he indulges in early morning whispers and late night laughter. Wine has become his beverage of choice, mostly because it makes her sparkle in the fading light. He likes the way her muscles warm and yield under his touch because his hands are so familiar. She giggles at his stupid jokes, even when she pretends to be absorbed in her book. Behind the walls of his once lonely apartment, they have found each other all over again and it is more than enough. It is everything.
For days they had clung together, ignoring their responsibilities to make promises to one another. This would be a priority now, they had vowed. It is their time. They deserve it. They are done wanting. They are done waiting.
Sleep does not cycle with the rise and fall of the moon. Sleep is for the fresh light of morning when their words become slurred and drowsy; when their fingers are numb from touching; when their hearts are full and bursting with love. Hurt and regret are exposed in the afternoon sun for there are no shadows in which to hide. But the sheer romance of twilight never fails to cast its spell and minds that are dizzy, spinning in secrets and truth, calm as their world narrows to just them, just these walls, and the simple fact that they belong together.
Growth. It is something he's been working on for years, only now he finally feels like he has earned a goddamn flower.
His apartment is dark, which really just means that Ziva has to work later than him. She has only started working a week ago, teaching ESL classes while going back to school. She has been nervous and intense about it, taking her role very seriously. She spends hours hunched over her laptop doing webinars and researching teaching strategies. She practices her lectures in murmured phrases under her breath as she slices vegetables and cleans the guns hidden in the apartment. Because of the weapons literally at hand, he's kept his smartass comments to himself. He is glad she is happy now, busy, and feeling useful. He can read contentment in smooth lines of her brow and the way her shoulders lift just a little as she walks. Still, he misses coming home to find her waiting for him. In those first few weeks back, when she had been figuring her life out, she'd always greeted him antsy and eager. Most nights they were lucky to make it to the bed.
Tony tries to embrace the silence, to enjoy the moment alone. There have been few since she returned, not that he really minds. He flips on a single lamp as he stows his gun away and hangs up his coat. Lacking further direction, he goes to change out of his suit. He's survived the day without it needing immediate dry cleaning and so figures he should quit while he is ahead. With only the streetlight streaming in through the curtain, he manages to hang up his suit and throw on a sweater and jeans in the dark of his room.
He is eating cold leftover lasagna from a Styrofoam carton, listening to the whine and hum of the icemaker in his fridge, when a key turns the lock.
"Hey," Ziva greets him, a bit breathless as she struggles with the bags in her hands. Unloading her belongings onto the counter, she shrugs off her coat and drapes it over a chair. He smirks at the mundaneness of it all.
"Work late?" He asks, swallowing a mouthful of food.
A heavy sigh lowers Ziva's shoulders, her eyes meet his brimming with stress and anxiety. In her past life, that look had never failed to freak him out as it generally meant nothing but death and danger. Tonight, though, he assumes (hopes, really) it is something far more innocuous. A problem that can be solved over leftovers and wine as they stand barefoot in the kitchen.
"There is just so much to do…" She begins, shaking her head as she sorts through her bag. She plugs in her laptop, organizes her files, and stacks her books in a neat pile. She moves through his apartment, their apartment now really, hanging up her coat and purse, charging her phone, and emptying her gym bag directly into the washing machine. He munches on cold garlic bread and admires the grace in her strides. On her return trip, she stands next to him at the counter and unloads a cloth grocery sack. The quirk in her eyebrow tells him she knows what he's thinking. He shrugs in acknowledgement. A pre-made salad is plunked next to his lasagna though she eyes his dinner in interest. Without a word, he feeds her a bite. Her little hum of appreciation sparks a blaze of fire under his skin; it doesn't take him much these days, really.
"Let me get you a drink," he offers, snatching up the bottle of merlot she'd purchased. He trails a hand over the small of her back.
His dance to the cabinet for a corkscrew and glasses make her smile. Folding her arms across her chest, she leans back against the counter and tilts her head at him. A grin teases her lips. "This is my life now?"
He gives her a puzzled look.
She meets his gaze, eyes brighter now. "Instead of late nights catching criminals and eating from vending machines, I am eating cold leftovers standing up and worrying over lesson plans." She chuckles to herself. "Three months ago, I was sipping tea by the Mediterranean."
Tony makes a face. With a flick of his wrist, the cork pops free of the wine bottle. They both listen to the glug of their glasses filling. Holding her gaze, Tony approaches her, crowding her against the granite, and hands her a glass. She drops her other arm, opening her body to him.
"True, that sounds relaxing," Tony acquiesces. He takes a sip of his wine and sets his glass aside. Ziva watches him, expression openly wanting, as he moves in even closer. "But it was missing a key variable that is the reason you don't really mind the first two…"
"Really?" Ziva watches him carefully as she swallows a taste of merlot. "What is that?" Her pink tongue dashes out to lick her lips, just barely. Tony exhales and places a hand on her waist. Her eyes slide closed when he rests his forehead against hers. He presses his hips into hers, seeking the addictive heat of their bodies aligned.
He just chuckles, a throaty sound she soon swallows in a kiss along with his punch line. He doesn't care. Rocking against her, he slides his hand over her silk blouse, the cool fabric contrasting with the rising heat in her skin.
Ziva ends the kiss with a laugh, setting her wine glass down so she can hug him close. She rests her head on his shoulder. "That was predictable."
"This is our life now, right? Predictable?" He catches her hand in his, twining their fingers together. He presses a kiss into her collarbone.
"Yes. Except when you catch a case for three days straight or I start classes and my schedule becomes a mess," she gasps, pressing hard against his body when he nips at her ear lobe.
"Better do this while we can then." He growls when her hands work at his belt, nails nipping against the sensitive skin of his stomach. He tugs the blouse from her skirt as he kisses her. One hand works the hair tie out of her hair, setting her messy curls free.
But predictable isn't making love to this woman in the kitchen on a Wednesday. Predictable is his phone ringing from the living room, its digital melody rudely interrupting.
"Ignore it," she taunts as she scratches at his belly, knowing he can't. She's free from that rule now and revels in it. She catches him in another kiss, caressing his face. Her eyes blaze with affection.
He leaves her with reluctance and one last, quick, frustrating kiss.
It's Gibbs, of course, foretelling at least another twelve hours at the office (or rather, a crime scene) before he's allowed to sleep.
"But, boss—
It's the heat that she has stirred in his blood that makes him argue when he knows full well the answer.
"Ziver can wait," Gibbs snaps. "You have work to do."
It's an admonishment for his mouthiness, but he feels the sting as a dig at their budding relationship and Ziva's current life choices. Still, he knows better than to argue further and bites his lip instead.
"Be here in twenty, Agent." Order given, the line goes dead.
"See you in forty," DiNozzo sasses to his cell phone and tosses it by his keys. He pauses to take a deep breath before heading back to the kitchen.
"Holy… God."
Blasphemy is all he has, what with her looking every bit the goddess sitting on his countertop in judgment of the lust that has to shine from his face. He can only hope she'll find him worthy (of course she will.) She's dropped her skirt to the ground and, oh yes, her lace panties too. Her shirt is half unbuttoned; her bra discarded somewhere he doesn't bother to look. Her bare legs are crossed and she sips her wine, considering.
"Tony," she purrs, shifting a bit on the counter. His mind goes to cool granite on warm places and short circuits. "I am waiting."
He blinks and tries to breathe through war cries of the hormones in his veins. Sure, he's come a long way in the past few decades, no longer such a slave to his carnal urges, but…everyone has their limits and he craves her.
"I have a crime scene," he croaks out. He keeps his distance, worships from afar.
"DiNozzo, get over here," she commands.
He is but a good disciple. In a heartbeat, he has his arms around her, stealing the breath from her mouth. Her legs capture his body, urging him closer to her. She grinds against him as her hands work at unbuttoning his pants.
"Make it quick then." She bites down on the side of his neck hard then soothes it with her tongue. He'll have a mark and he knows she did that on purpose, master of the battlefield that she is.
He pulls back just enough to reproach her with the quirk of an eyebrow; she answers his smirk with a devilish look of her own. Her hand begins to stroke him; her hips roll on the counter, anticipating.
"Gibbs is going to kick my ass," he bemoans grabbing Ziva's thigh and tugging her forward, opening her wider. He is pleased to find that his height and her height and the height of the counter have all cosmically aligned into the perfect position. She gasps when he caresses her entrance with exploring fingers.
"Rules," she manages out, the rest of her words lost in a rush of breath as rubs her clit with his thumb. He tightens the arm wrapped around her back to keep her from falling off the counter completely. He knows the meaning of her word nevertheless; she is referring to the guidelines they created for their relationship both incorporating and superseding the code they have lived by at work for years. Primary among them is no mention of the creator of said code while trying to get off.
"Ready?" He asks, griping her thigh again, manhandling her into position.
"Yes," she responds and helps to guide him into her. "Now."
He pushes inside her welcoming body with a satisfied grunt. Their eyes lock, that moment when they connect still a shock even after weeks of this, and Ziva sighs with something like relief,
"I needed this," she mumbles, bracing herself on the countertop, eyelids fluttering with his thrusts. Her head falls back.
He stills for a second, ignoring her protests, and waits for her to meet his gaze. He touches her cheek with his palm. "I miss you."
It's honest and true. She's home now and isn't going anywhere and though their coupling will be too fast, over too soon, his departure will not be permanent. In all likelihood he will be back in the morning and wake her up by flopping into the bed, tired and sore after a long night in the field. But things are changing between them each day and though he likes this new person he's becoming and loves this new woman in his arms (his partner, his best friend, but so much more) there's still that ache that lingers. Scars they are both guilty of inflicting that will maybe never quite heal. It's a good reminder when they bleed.
"Tony…" Her voice wavers; she trembles, whether from arousal or some other emotion he'll never know. He kisses her tenderly; her hands flutter over his body, little soothing, quieting touches.
They take that moment of stillness. Completely wrapped up together, their pulses pound in tandem, their sweat mingling. They say no more words because they don't need them right now. When the wave of emotion abates, he begins to move again. Her cries of pleasure encourage his pace. Her knuckles go white gripping the countertop, holding herself upright. He leaves fingertip bruises on her thigh; she raises another hickey on his shoulder.
But time is never their friend. She's close, he knows her tells by now and can feel the erratic flutter of her muscles, so to send her over the edge he secures in arm around her waist, pulling her closer still and pushing even deeper. A pause and then he grips her thigh, tilting her back just a bit and making her shriek. Another thrust and she's quaking in his arms. He stills his movements, letting her come down from the high before riding out her aftershocks of pleasure and chasing his own orgasm with a groan in her ear.
Ziva's nails scrabble against his back and neck as she collapses against him, breathing heavily. "Do you have to go?
He chuckles. "I wish I didn't…"
She helps him clean himself up with a kitchen towel. "No time for a quick shower?" She shoots him a sultry look.
"Not that kind of shower," he sighs in regret, gripping her waist and helping her hop down from the counter on her shaky legs. He kisses her.
Pulling back, she traces the marking she left on his neck with her index finger. "At least you have a little souvenir."
He pouts. "Yeah. Thanks for that, tiger."
She plays coy. "Serves you right for leaving me here to spend the night alone with my lesson plans."
"I'm the one who will have to smell you on my skin while bagging evidence." He runs a nose along her neck to emphasize his point.
"You could take a quick shower. I promise not to jump you in there." Even as she says this, she buckles his belt.
"No time," he mumbles, seeking her mouth again.
"Go," she orders when they come up for air, her voice husky. "Hurry home and we will finish where we left off."
He raises an eyebrow at her. Her half-smile in response suggests she understands that her request is improbable. She snaps the dirty kitchen towel at him as she leaves him to finish putting himself back together.
As Tony prepares to leave again, Ziva chats about her day, working through her concerns and frustrations as he brushes his teeth and reapplies deodorant. He offers her what little advice he has as they quickly clean up their mess in the kitchen. She feeds him bites of lasagna as he holsters his gun and laces up his boots. It is a process both frantic and easy at the same time, little bits of time stolen when he should be hustling out the door.
Hand on the doorknob, he watches as Ziva returns to the kitchen to feed herself still wearing nothing more than her silk blouse. Tony sighs heavily and forces himself to leave.
In the street below, he pauses for a moment to look back up at his apartment. The windows are lit in a soft yellow light. Through the gauze of his drapes he can just make out the silhouette of Ziva traversing the living room. He imagines her heading for the shower or maybe a bath, glass of wine and book in hand. Home is no longer a place he retreats to hide and avoid. It is an anchor, a weight that tethers him to the man he wants to be. And, really, home isn't his apartment, dark or light. It is his partner. She fills in his blank spaces and gives him purpose.
After dealing with the gore and grief that awaits him, he will look forward to coming home not to four indifferent walls but to the life that exists within them.