A/N: I know, I know, I do have another elevator fic which remains unfinished. But this one struck me and my muse is so sporadic and miserly that I will just take what I can get. She finished this in a week. Crazy.
According to spoilers currently released (which I won't mention for the spoilerphobes), I have written the Dearing aspect of this fic very, very wrong. But I'll admit, I basically just shoved the investigation aside here because it wasn't relevant to what I wanted to do. The goal here was Tony and Ziva and their relationship and the way I wish it would change post bomb. Dearing honestly was just minor a plot point for me. So, yeah, I wrote it wrong. But I don't particularly care. I'll let Glasberg & Co. give that story justice on September 25.
Many millions of thanks to my wonderful beta, Mina (Wilhelmina Willoughby) for not only bravely volunteering to take this beast on, but also whipping it into shape with her wise observations. You watch out for her, because she's going to end up at the top of the New York Times bestseller list one day. She's brilliant.
Hope you guys like this, then, and please remember to review! (And PM me after the premiere so we can squee!)
the earth did move
By: Zayz
Two hearts fading like a flower.
And all this waiting for the power.
For some answer to this fire.
Sinking slowly, the water's higher.
Desire.
With no secrets, no obsession.
This time I'm speeding with no direction.
Without a reason. What is this fire?
Burning slowly, my one and only.
Desire.
You know me. You don't mind waiting.
You just can't show me, but God I'm praying,
That you'll find me, and that you'll see me,
That you run and never tire.
Desire.
- Ryan Adams, "Desire"
Tony and Ziva are hoisted out of the elevator into bright light – not fluorescent, but natural sunlight, because most of the building is gone from that side. After the cool darkness of the elevator, it's overwhelming. The world is awash with color and sound but it's harsh, strange, weirdly dreamlike.
The only thing that is real is her hand in his, his hand in hers. He's shaking a little; she's clutching him with an iron grip. For a long time, that is where their hands have been, entwined in one tangled, fleshy knot, and they hold on tight.
The medics, with their calm, concerned faces, smeared with dirt and sweat and blood – they try to separate Tony's hand from Ziva's so that they can both get looked over. And Tony and Ziva cooperate, because that's what needs to be done right now. The medics lights shine in their eyes, take their pulses, give preliminary physical examinations – all those doctor things. They tell him he has a mild concussion, but he's barely listening.
The thing is, the moment their hands got separated, the world stopped feeling real. From over the medic's shoulder, he keeps his eyes vigilantly trained on her. The panic trying to clamp its iron fist around his heart is kept at bay, when she is close by. He tries to regroup his racing thoughts, tries to ask the medic about the head count, the team, the investigation, something, anything – but his thoughts are goldfish and his head is the bowl that got shattered, leaking water everywhere, and the fish are flopping madly, trying desperately to swim, but going nowhere.
His head is woozy, aching. He is ordered to go home and rest, but of course, he doesn't. He wanders around outside, flashing his dusty badge at anyone who gives him even half a look, and tries to get his head straight, find his team.
Abby is the first one Tony finds. She is sitting on the backside of an ambulance – a little scratched up, but unharmed. She looks as restless as he feels – surveying the crowd, chewing on her lip, running her fingers through her pigtails over and over again. She spots him suddenly and runs to him, against the advice of the yelling medics, and descends upon him in a bone-crushing hug. And he lets her, even though it takes the wind out of him, because it's good to see someone, good to know at least one in their family is…well, alive.
She tells him Gibbs has gone to the hospital to stay with McGee. He tells her that Ziva is a few feet away, still with a medic. They compare notes with all the rush and relief of a dam finally bursting, because they're worried sick and it's too wonderful, not having to bear that burden alone.
Abby totters off to see Ziva and Tony rushes to the hospital to find Gibbs and McGee. They promise to keep each other posted, then scamper.
Tony finds McGee and Gibbs at a hospital about ten minutes away from NCIS; and then after about an hour, Ziva somehow sweet-talks her way into the hospital and into McGee's room; and then finally Abby rushes in, talking a mile a minute and almost smothering McGee with hugs. Ziva has to physically pry her off of him, because she won't let go. Out of their team, McGee definitely got the worst of it, but he's not in terrible shape. Bruised ribs, cuts and abrasions, but mercilessly nothing broken. He has to stay in the hospital for a couple of days, and he has to swallow a few pills everyday, but it's a small price to pay to get out of there alive.
They spend the rest of the day in the hospital with McGee, who coughs weakly every few minutes but otherwise pretends he's fine. No one says much, not even Abby, after the initial reunion. Nothing seems important enough to break the silence.
The nurses come in and out to check on McGee. Then Fornell pays a visit, face grim, beckoning Gibbs outside. The FBI is in talks to join the investigation, or at least help with damage control for now. Fornell has been on the ground and he is the one who has to tell Gibbs that Palmer is on his way back from Florida to handle the bodies - should be landing within the hour - and Ducky has had a heart attack. Thankfully, he was found before things got too serious, and he will be transported to the hospital by tomorrow at the latest, once he's stable enough to be moved.
Gibbs delivers the verdict to his stricken team calmly, colorlessly, as he would deliver any case information on a non-nightmarish day. But there are creases deepening between his eyebrows that give away his agony, and then he disappears, most likely to convince the Florida doctors to fly Ducky over within the next couple of hours. This leaves the four, Tony, Ziva, McGee and Abby, alone in the hospital room to quietly worry together.
Abby never leaves McGee's side. Even when he falls asleep, exhausted and in pain, she curls up beside him in bed and falls asleep too. In sleep, her hand finds his and she grips him tight. And, in sleep, he feels her there, and grips her back even tighter.
They look kind of like battered puppies looking for warmth in this cool, air-conditioned room - yet the gesture is so intimate that Tony feels a little embarrassed, intruding on their moment. He catches Ziva's eye and he knows she feels it too.
But there's something else there in Ziva, in the way she watches them from her own curled-up vantage point, sitting alone in a chair five feet from Tony sitting alone in his chair. She's frowning slightly, chewing on a stray strand of her hair, hugging her knees and looking moody. She's staring out the window, a million miles away.
He knows what this is. He knows what she's thinking about. But he knows better than to say anything.
He tells her he's going to the vending machines to get candy, maybe a coffee. He waits a beat, then asks if she wants anything.
"No," she says without looking up. "But thank you."
He goes and comes back with coffee and a chocolate bar, and in that time, she has finally gone to sleep, her cheek on her knees, her snores soft, barely there. He drinks the coffee, eats the chocolate, and silently guards all three of them, accompanied by his woolly, restless thoughts, until sleep pulls him under too.
He wakes up shortly after dawn, to weak sunlight and one particularly obnoxious song-bird, and it takes him a minute to remember why he is sitting in this hospital room, why his back hurts so terribly, why his head feels like tiny leprechauns are bashing his brain in with mallets, why he feels so generally wooden and heavy and miserable. And when he remembers, it's almost as bad as going through it the first time. The memories come, sharp and vivid, like his mind took the liberty of saving copies in high definition.
He tries to stretch himself out and leave quietly, but Ziva awakens as he's putting on his shoes. She catches his eye and tells him to wait up. She stretches like a cat and stands. She never took her shoes off the previous day. They grab coffee together, and he offers her a ride to NCIS, because they know that's where they're both going.
She looks tempted for a second, but says no, because her car is here. They go their separate ways without another word.
The hunt for Dearing continues over the next couple of days. Gibbs is, of course, at the head of it, mild concussion and bruised ribs and orders of rest be damned. The doctors insist McGee remain in the hospital a little while longer – because they know he'll join the investigation the moment he's discharged – but the rest of the team is right behind Gibbs.
Tony and Ziva throw themselves into the work – the leads, the interviews, the jumble of evidence – because that's what they do best. And, generally, they get along fine under a gleaming façade of normalcy and productivity, but the illusion fractures in the details, because something is definitely up. The two of them dance in challenge position, gliding through their work responsibilities, mirroring every step, but never too close, never quite meeting each other's eye.
There is so much to do and they do it, but always there is this temptation, this wild impulse, to pull the other aside and ask the simple question: what is going on? What does all of this mean?
The longer they wait, the more urgent this feels. There are moments when Tony catches Ziva's eye and she seems like she's waiting for something. Waiting for him to make a move for the both of them. And there are moments when he wants to, because this is an itch that gets worse the longer he doesn't scratch it.
But then he reminds himself that they are looking for a man who bombed their home, and there is a lot more going on here than Ziva and the never-ending list of things they need to talk about.
She was the one who suggested sitting on his shoulders to try and get out of here, some two hours after they got stuck in the elevator.
He wasn't keen on the idea - his head was throbbing where it hit the floor when they came in - but she was even more frazzled than he was, sitting around in such a tight, confined space. When the light was right and her guard was down, he caught something raw and desperate and primal in her eyes, and he wondered what exactly was sending her heart-rate spiking, what exactly about this confinement was making her so anxious.
In the end, that was what made him give in. Her nervous energy. Because she was Ziva and she didn't get like this. She was the one who stayed calm and negotiated her way out while he got defiant and emotional. It slightly alarmed him, this role reversal. So he indulged her, and hoisted her up on his shoulders, and let her investigate exactly where their elevator was positioned in the wreckage.
She was warm and heavy and almost overwhelming, sitting up on his tight, tired shoulders, but she seemed to be making headway - until, without warning, the elevator floor rumbled and he lost his balance and she fell to her feet, gripping him like a lifeline.
She said, "We slipped." And he said, "Did we? I thought the Earth moved."
They decided to try again - only the elevator rumbled again, harder this time, and they collapsed into each other, helplessly tangled up like a ball of yarn.
For a second they couldn't work out how to untangle themselves. There was no space in this claustrophobic elevator, so they just lay there, all bunched up together. Her breathing, shallow and warm. His smell, familiar behind the layers of dust and sweat. Her hair in his eyes and her weight pressed against his and, suddenly, her eyes, so deeply brown, boring into his. Their noses just barely touching. Their breath intermingling in the tiny space between their mouths. Hers open, his closed.
It's easy to overthink it after the fact, obsessively dissect every movement, every thought, that led to the choices made. But in the moment, they didn't think. She leaned forward and his lips parted to let her in, and they just kissed. Kissed for several seconds, just because the other was there and the elevator was rumbling and they were afraid and it felt right.
She was hovering on top of him, but she never let her body relax into his. This was something his shell-shocked brain did register. How she let her arms intersect with his but still kept them taut, holding herself up, no surrender. How even then, during their first real kiss, it was like she didn't trust him.
It wasn't clear who broke the kiss first, but as suddenly as they began, they stopped. She looked at him and he looked at her and for a moment, she was lit up by blind panic. About this kiss. This situation. Trying to get out of here. But then she rolled over to lie beside him and they stayed there for some time, staring at the ceiling, waiting.
A bunch of FBI agents, closely followed by medics, managed to break into the elevator a few short minutes later. They called out, said help was here. Without thinking, Tony pushed Ziva up and away from him, and without thinking, she reached a hand out, and they grabbed her, pulled her out. Someone was asking her if she was all right when an FBI agent grabbed Tony, pulled him out too.
It was when they finally reached proper ground again that Ziva's hand found Tony's, and through the shock and the bright light and the noise and the mess, all was strangely well.
At least, it was, until life intervened and of course, they had to let go.
They catch Dearing about a week after the bombing. The NCIS bomb was his pièce de résistance, and after that, he seems to have deflated like a sad balloon, having punished the Navy and still not getting what he needed. Abby tracks him to a park near downtown D.C. He just sits on the bench, holding his son's dog-tags, staring at the sky. When the agents arrive, he produces a gun, and Gibbs gets the pleasure of the final shot, and finally, it's over. No explosions, no wild chase, no mushroom of fire and smoke lighting up the sky – just a sad father shot dead in the park, a quiet denouement to an exhausting case. It didn't seem quite right, when Tony heard about it later. If Dearing's story were a movie, he seemed set on a Michael Bay type of ending – a shoot-out, another explosion, something big and noisy. It seems strange to Tony that this insane, fire-happy man chose to give up.
But the damage Dearing had done still lay all around the NCIS building, was scattered in the hospitals crowded with casualties. It was over, yet somehow, no one seemed to take much pleasure in that.
They were shaken, every single one of them. Counselors swarmed the building, as the agents tried to make sense of things. But there was no sense in them, not really. There was only the wreckage. So much wreckage.
The night they catch Dearing, Gibbs takes a rare early night, and advises his team to do the same. He also tells them, quietly, that he does not need to see them here tomorrow. They need rest. They've done good. The pressure and tightness of the past few days subsides a little – his eyes are warmer, his mouth in his signature half-smirk.
Abby decides to go spend the evening with McGee and Ducky in the hospital, catch them up on the end of the Dearing case. That leaves Tony and Ziva in the bull-pen, properly alone and with spare time for the first time in what feels like weeks and weeks. There's quite a bit of noise - construction crew are getting started on repairs - but it fades into the background. He looks at her and she looks at him, and then she walks over to his desk, smiling slightly. They both look like hell – dark circles under their eyes, hair a mess, still wearing yesterday's clothes because they've barely left the office for the past forty-eight hours, closing in on Dearing.
She asks, "Are you...all right?"
He sighs, examines his shoes. "I guess."
She pauses, then asks on a sudden inspiration, "Do you want to go for a drink?"
He looks up, surprised, but not in a bad way. He says, "Yeah. Yeah, that'd be nice."
She smiles her lovely smile, and he smiles right back at her, but there's something nervous about the way they do it. They're casual and light but it's a little bit forced, because this is a big deal. To the unknowing bystander, it's just drinks between two coworkers who have recently been through a lot – but they are Tony and Ziva. They have spent personal time together outside of work in recent years, but this is consenting to spend an evening together after a major trauma. After a major personal development. After several days of steadfast evasion.
This is an agreement to step out of their work-related comfort zone and maybe talk about things. And tonight, there's everything to say and everything to lose and everything to gain and those kinds of vague, all-important stakes never do lead to good things.
They drive separately to their favorite bar, the quiet one they go to when they need a night out. They know where to go without discussing it. They've only been a few times together, but it's her favorite, the place she goes where she needs comfort, and he likes it because the music isn't too loud and there are always the right number of people, not so many that it feels crowded, but enough that it's never lonely.
They sit at the counter and order drinks. She gets a martini and he gets a shot of vodka and a beer. He downs the shot, wincing a bit as it stings on the way down, but makes him all warm and alive afterwards. Then he starts on the beer, fizzy and malty and moody, trying to clear his slightly-aching head. She's sipping her drink, watching him. He tries not to stare back but he can feel her eyes on him and it makes him jumpy, anxious.
It's amazing, how they can be so normal as partners in the office, but so uncomfortable when they are alone together in a place that isn't work. How, the moment there aren't any dead bodies or problems to solve, all their easy chemistry goes awry and everything feels off.
"I can't believe we finally caught Dearing," he says at last, running his finger around and around the lip of his glass.
"I know." She exhales slowly and sips at her martini. "It's…over."
He doesn't have anything else to say to that, because the truth is so leaden in both their stomachs by this point, so he nods and takes a gulp of beer. The two of them sit there with their drinks, staring into space, any space the other does not occupy, and they are at a loss for words. The exhaustion of the day, the awkwardness after the elevator, the shock and numbness that accompanied the case – they're all taking their toll.
She looks worn out, wisps of her hair loose around her face, the dark shadows under her eyes especially noticeable in this fluorescent light. And he doesn't look much better; his eyes, too, contain shadows, and the lines in his face seem deeper somehow. He rubs his face in his hands and stifles a yawn.
Finally, when he is three quarters through his beer, she speaks.
"I admit, I wasn't sure if the FBI would allow Gibbs to remain on the investigation. Not in his state."
"You know Gibbs," he says. "Whether they let him or not, he would join it. So they might as well use their talents."
A pause.
"I'm glad McGee is all right."
"I was worried about him too. And Abby."
"I wonder how Gibbs managed to save her before the bomb went off. He went to go disarm it and she didn't know."
"I guess that's yet another mystery Leroy Jethro Gibbs will take to his grave."
She shudders. "Don't say that. Not after that day."
His ears go red. "You're right. I'm sorry."
And suddenly she looks so tender at his apology, like she's flipped on a light, turned over a curtain, and revealed this part of herself he has rarely ever seen. It slightly shocks him, how soft she looks, how she looks at him as though she's about to cry.
Sometimes, he forgets that about her. He's so used to her being his unstoppable ninja assassin that he forgets she's not bullet-proof.
"I don't know how he got that close," she whispers.
Her softness is like a mirror effect; he finds his own insides beginning to flip over, reveal themselves. His eyes, too, go soft, because he, too, is still shaken and afraid, even though this threat has been apprehended and sent to a place he cannot reach anyone anymore.
Automatically, Tony reaches a hand out, and it rests on her shoulder. And at once, he becomes nervous. The gesture, while innocuous and sweet, is so generally unlike them that he almost pulls away with disbelief. But then he doesn't. His hand stays where it is, and she lets it, her eyes still fixed on him.
"It won't happen again," he tells her.
"It could."
"It could," he concedes, because after all, it is technically true. "But I don't think it will."
"Why not?"
Her need for his steadiness is frightening. There she is, with those large, lovely brown eyes of hers, fixing him in a solitary spotlight, daring him to prove her wrong. Her wild hair and that unflinching softness unnerves him.
Because he realizes he doesn't know how to stay strong for her. He doesn't even know how to stay strong for himself.
He withdraws his hand from her shoulder and rests it close to hers on the bar counter. Around them, the music plays, the bartender flips a bottle, the patrons in the room are drinking, laughing, talking, talking. They are blissfully unaware of what has happened at NCIS, of the way Tony and Ziva are sitting here, so insulated from everyone else, taking these steps into such private, wondrous terrain, even though terror grips their hearts like an iron fist.
Her eyes are shiny, but she doesn't cry. She's still waiting. He bites his lip.
"Ziva, I can't promise you anything. You know that."
That flicker again. Like disappointment. He sees the beginnings of her shutting down again, embarrassed, uncertain – and he realizes he doesn't want her to shut down. He wants her to stay like this – vulnerable, accessible, new, fascinating. Because shutting down is their modus operandi and that's boring now. He wants to reach. He wants to be afraid with her.
So Tony grips her hand, and tells her, "But I can promise you that we will do everything we can not to let it happen again."
She looks at her hand in his, and then back at him, and he can tell she's back in the elevator now, back in that claustrophobic little place where all they had was the other, when they kissed out of impulse and necessity, when they held hands on their way out and it was like for a moment there was sense in this chaos.
She leans in a little, the scent of her sweat and her perfume strong, heady, almost overwhelming but not unpleasantly so. He thinks she's about to say something, but she doesn't; she just lingers there, distracting in her proximity.
"Are you going to kiss me?" he murmurs.
At once, he mentally kicks himself. He really can't think straight when she's in his face like this.
But she's smiling. "I already did."
"Why?"
This was apparently the wrong thing to say. Ziva jerks back like she's been slapped.
"What do you mean?"
Again with the not thinking straight. He gives himself another mental kick. "I just…I don't know. Forget I said anything."
She gives him a look that tells him she couldn't forget if she tried. She shakes her head, mouth tight, eyes closed off.
"You want to know why I kissed you?" she asks.
He just stays quiet, wondering how on earth she is going to defend that one. She sighs, runs a hand through her hair. She looks tired again.
"I did it because I was tired of pretending. Why did you do it?"
His mouth is slightly open, confused, as he processes that. But there's something else too, something in his eyes that hasn't been there in a while. Something...sparkly. Playful. Intrigued but also intriguing.
He says, "Same reason."
The moment is loaded like a bomb set to explode, a bomb that could obliterate life as they knew it. They've been here before, in moments that could potentially mean too much. That time when they were trying to catch P2P and he went to talk to her at the bar and they found the eyeball in the drink and had to go. That late night when they had caught Stratton and they were talking and the energy was crackling and Ray called and Ziva took it. And the countless stolen moments they've had over the years. But in moments like that, there were always witnesses, interruptions (often by Gibbs), other things to do that would delay the moment.
Here, though, there's none of that. Just the two of them, in this bar full of people who couldn't care less. Them and their electric eye contact and their quickened breathing and and their two drinks between them, sitting like props, because that's what they are, aren't they? Flimsy reasons for the two of them to be alone together and get to this, the pinnacle moment, when the cards are laid out on the table at long last, and the trigger is about to blow, and the flame is about to catch, and they can't pretend anymore?
Tony leans in, gets as close as she did just now, in the elevator. And she's right there to meet him, lips slightly parted, her warmth emanating off of her and sinking into his deepest skin.
And then he just does it. No more thinking, no more waiting. He does it. He kisses her.
It's a tentative, exploratory kiss, like a wave at low tide breaking over the beach, claiming the first line of sun-warmed sand. Just lips on lips, nothing intense. Not yet. She tastes sharp and vaguely herbal, and a little bit tart, from the martini. And it's like she's giving him the breath of life. He can feel her, every bit of her – her hand still clutching his, her racing heartbeat, her lungs rising and falling, rising and falling, their every breath shared between them.
It's still something that he's kissing her at all. They kissed that one time undercover, but it never felt like them, like two people who wanted to express their desire physically. He has imagined this first personal kiss many times, sure, but the reality of it – her heat and her flavor and her very being, solid, right there beside him – surpasses any of his idle daydreams.
He can feel Ziva pushing it forward a little bit, her tongue flicking playfully in and out of his mouth. He can feel her bringing him in, her mouth enveloping his top lip, gobbling him up so she can have more. And instinctively he reacts, his free hand going to her waist, pulling her closer, his tongue finding all the corners and crevices of her open mouth. And he can feel his body coming alive, something dormant waking up and shaking its sleepy head and igniting a fire in his bones. And he knows what they both want to do next. And he feels himself lazily pushing away all the (very good) reasons they have not to go there.
But she is the one who stops them. What felt like such an intimate whirlwind of wonder and tongue and galloping heart comes to an abrupt end as her tongue withdraws, and her lips disengage, and she pulls away with a deep inhale, eyes wild.
They sit beside one another, taking slow breaths and recovering from the suddenness, the mild insanity, of what they have just done. It takes them a split-second to realize they are still gripping each other's hands as though they're afraid of tumbling into a dark abyss. Quickly, self-consciously, they let go, and Ziva absently rubs her forearm up and down, up and down, like she's trying to decide what to do.
Breathless, Tony runs a hand through his hair, trying to avoid her eyes. He's blushing hard, still perplexed that he actually did it. He actually kissed Ziva. Not because they were undercover, not because they were stuck in that elevator together with nothing but adrenaline in their veins – but because he wanted to. Because she was sitting here with him tonight and they both wanted it.
At last, he plucks up the courage to look at her face. She catches his gaze and holds it.
"I—"
"It's getting late," she interrupts. "We have to work early tomorrow."
They freeze.
"Tony, did you—"
"No," he says firmly, shoving the thing he wanted to say down into the deepest recesses of his brain. "No, I didn't. I…was going to say the same thing. We should get going."
"Yes. We should." She runs a hand through her hair, like he did. "I…will see you tomorrow."
"Tomorrow. Yeah."
They leave the money on the counter for their drinks – which are not quite finished – and head to the door, cheeks flaming. They walk together, but it's a brusque walk, and their arms don't touch. He gallantly opens the door and lets her go before him, and then she gallantly opens the next door, lets him go before her.
Their cars are parked next to each other. They head to their respective driver's seats without looking back at one another.
But before she reverses out, Ziva lowers the window, waits for him to lower his too, and says, "Good night."
His smile is gentle. "Good night, Ziva."
She drives off first into the night, going left. He follows her out, but he goes right.
Ziva walks into work the next morning looking a little wilted – shoulders curled inward, dark shadows under her eyes still visible beneath the make-up, hair open and wavy. She yawns as she settles into her desk.
Tony comes in shortly after her, yawning too, his hair not quite as perfectly gelled as usual, his shadows a shade darker than last night.
The office is noisy; it's rumored that the repairs will last at least a few weeks, so there are construction workers everywhere. Gibbs's things are at his desk, but he is presumably in the director's office, talking business, and McGee still isn't cleared from the doctor to come back to work. He'll be back in a couple of days; at least, that's what he said when the team went to visit him the night before last. Tony makes a mental note to himself to see the probie again tonight, maybe bring him a movie to pass the time.
He gives Ziva the elevator eyes the moment he sits down, but then, she returns the appraising look. They are like overly-thorough x-rays, searching for something.
Apparently they find it. They both go back to their own business smirking slightly, morbidly satisfied with the fact that obviously, neither of them slept much last night.
The day passes without event, besides Gibbs arriving downstairs with a case file and an order to grab their gear, because murderers don't have a pause button, even if the NCIS building is bombed. The team works the scene, missing McGee's steady presence terribly amidst their own awkwardness, trying – and ultimately failing – to keep things as normal as possible.
He talks politely and she doesn't snark either, but there's something off between them now. Because last night, they kissed. Last night, they willingly stepped out of their roles as fellow professionals and brought something very personal, and physical, into their relationship.
They have been through much more in the past, but this kiss changes things yet again. This kiss is undeniable proof, no matter what happens, no matter how much they argue, that at least once in recent history, he wanted her and she wanted him and in that moment, they took exactly what they wanted.
The second day after their kiss also goes by without event – until the evening, when they are packing up to leave.
He knows it's his last chance, because McGee is coming back tomorrow and Tony really doesn't want Tim to know about any of this – and if either of them acts too far out of the norm, McGee is a smart enough agent that he might put the pieces together. Gibbs has been distracted after the blast, worried about Abby and Ducky and McGee, throwing himself head-first into the case – and Gibbs never participates much in the office banter anyway, so it's easier, actually, to hide any potential giveaways from him than it would be from McGee.
So when Ziva is packing up tonight, Tony finishes early, arrives at her desk, and seats himself at the corner of it, his most charming smile in place.
"Hello there, Agent David," he says sweetly.
She grins, sly but amused. "Hello, Agent DiNozzo. May I help you?"
"You sure can." He clears his throat, tries to be slightly more serious. "So, I was wondering – do you want to have coffee with me?"
"It's ten o'clock at night, Tony," Ziva points out. "There aren't a lot of places open."
"Well, fortunately for you, good lady, the Café DiNozzo is a twenty-four hour service whose sole objective is to please its patrons," he says, beaming.
She laughs, but her eyes are serious, contemplating. She chews her fingernail, considering him.
Then she says, "All right. Let's go."
He can't deny it; he's a little bit surprised. Here they go again. "Okay. Do you want to ride with me, or…?"
"Yes. I will ride with you." She's smiling, but he can see the tension around her mouth.
"Great," he says, gesturing out in front of himself. "After you."
She begins to walk out to the elevator, but her legs brush against his as she negotiates past the desk, and he's not sure it's entirely accidental. She glances back at him, still smiling, but with an air of mischief now – trying to hide, beneath her playfulness, the tension lingering around the corners of her mouth.
He follows close behind her – nervous too, but kind of excited, because she hasn't been over, not in a while anyway, and he's tired of being weird with her. Maybe some coffee and a James Bond movie will loosen her up.
Tonight, unlike most nights, they ride in his car together.
The radio is on, and they are chatting politely, but Ziva knows that the closer they get to his apartment, the closer they get to this uncharted territory they have begun to cover together.
Because a kiss in a bar is one thing. Going voluntarily to his apartment to have coffee and spend the evening together, in a place with a bed nearby, is entirely another.
They talk and talk, but he can't help wondering if this is really appropriate. Sure, they are two consenting adults – friends – who know each other and like each other and asked nicely and both said yes. But since the bomb blast, they have spent more and more time together and he's not entirely sure where this is going, or whether they should be on this ride at all.
She is his partner and his coworker and, yes, his friend. But only his friend. They have never been any more than that.
He has been tempted on more than one occasion – and he knows she has too – but they've never gone there. They always figured their jobs and their lives and their other romantic interests were more important. They wordlessly and mutually chose never to go there.
Yet here they are, driving to his apartment tonight, for coffee, maybe a movie, choosing each other. Choosing to go there, and see what happens.
His apartment is small, a little messy, but comfortable. He has clearly put some effort into the movie area, which is immediately visible from the entrance; it is filled with soft couches and bookshelves neatly stacked with movie boxes, a large plasma screen TV glowing in the corner. She steps inside properly and it smells like coffee and beer and day-old laundry – but it's mixed with something his, that scent she gets when she's right in his neck, and she likes it. It smells…homey.
He puts on the coffee and tells her to make herself at home on the couch. "Do you want to watch a movie?" he asks her, coming into the living room as the water heats up.
She checks the time and almost says no, but then she says yes. Because this couch is comfortable and he is making her coffee and she wants to be here right now. It's less pressure, actually, away from work. There's no script here, no responsibilities to attend to. There's more empty space here to write their own script. She kicks off her shoes and wills herself to relax.
He stands around in the living room with her until the coffee is ready. When it's done, he goes to the kitchen and pours them two mugs – with the right amount of milk and sugar, too, because he's gotten her enough coffee on too-early mornings after too little sleep, to know what she likes. He hands her a mug and lets her get started, as he peruses his collection for adequate entertainment.
"I'm thinking Bond," he muses. "You haven't lived until you've seen Goldfinger."
"Then I suppose I haven't lived."
His jaw drops with shock; even though he'd kind of figured, he still genuinely appears offended. "Then that's what we're watching."
She can't help but laugh. "Okay. Put it in."
He obliges, and as the movie starts up, he collapses next to her on the couch. Unlike her, he has no reservations about relaxing: his shoes go straight off and he's curled up beside her, respectfully not too close, but also loose and comfortable and okay with the fact that their ankles are touching and her arm bumps his when she takes a sip of coffee.
The movie plays, and Tony does watch, because it's one of his favorites, but he finds himself more interested in how Ziva is receiving it. And he finds that Ziva, too, is very interested in how he himself is receiving the movie. He feels her eyes on him, darting back and forth from his face to the screen; he knows her too well not to be familiar with the weight of her gaze on him, the way she angles herself so she can look at both Connery and DiNozzo without difficulty.
They get through the whole movie that way, playing their little game, watching each other watch the movie while pretending they never did such a thing.
It's late by the time the credits roll, well past midnight. In hindsight, this probably was not their best decision, since they have to be at work early tomorrow. Yet, sitting on the couch together, after their fourth cups of coffee, they are awake and alive and somehow unable to regret anything.
Ziva finishes off the dregs of her coffee and sets the mug down on the table in front of her. She stretches out her arms, yawning a little, and her wrist brushes by Tony's ear. They pretend it doesn't matter. She sets her hands back in her lap demurely, and says, "That was actually quite entertaining."
"Told you," he says, grinning. "I mean. Really. That Aston Martin...what I wouldn't give to be able to give that baby a ride..." The longing is unmistakable in his voice. He mimes recklessly driving a car, complete with "vroom vroom" noises under his breath.
"I know," she says. "I remember."
He stiffens. "What do you mean, you remember?"
She doesn't seem to be teasing him; her smile is kind. "It was on your bucket list, the one you wrote a few months ago," says Ziva. "Driving the car from Goldfinger was in your top five."
He gapes at her in amazement. "Seriously?"
"Seriously what?"
"You remember that?"
"I do." She smirks. "You also wanted to date a Bond girl. And/or Miss Universe."
"Every red-blooded heterosexual male on this planet wants to date a Bond girl and/or Miss Universe." Still, his ears go red.
She pats his arm. "It's okay, Tony. I understand."
"I just can't believe you remember that," he tells her.
"It was funny. And I have a photographic memory."
They're both smiling, and for once, they're both relaxed; the mood is not at all like the tense, stilted atmosphere at the bar that night. They are sitting on his couch with the empty coffee mugs, exhausted but kind of giddy with the caffeine and the movie and now their togetherness. It's so...natural. Like this is the obvious course of things. Like this is what they should have been doing all along.
He gazes at her then, and she stares right back, and some of that easy bliss in both their eyes gives way to something more intense. Sparkly again. Playful. Intrigued and intriguing. Aroused.
While the movie was fun, it also wasn't what they really wanted. So, now that it's over, and he's giving her that look, and it's mirrored in her face too, he gives in. Lets the obvious course of things take the reigns. Leans in and kisses her again.
This kiss doesn't have the same cautiousness they had the first time. They broke down the door in the elevator, and they did the exploring in the bar. Their bodies just react; she anchors her hand on his jaw, and he pulls her in, and her tongue glides along his upper lip. He could almost burst with want. He brings her even closer and she throws her leg over his lap, straddling him, hips on hips, and he rubs small, hard circles into the nape of her neck. They kiss with abandon on his couch for a little while - just kiss, take the edge off, scratch the itch, quench the thirst.
A painful kind of happiness explodes like fireworks in his chest. He can feel her quivering a little bit, almost like she's cold or terrified or excited or maybe all of the above. That intimate feeling of sharing the same air, being insulated from everything, shrinking the universe down to just the two of them - it's intoxicating. It feels right. She is pressed up against him so tight he can swear he feels her heart beating against his own chest, in time with his.
Last night at the bar, when they got to this point, they cooled it down and went home. But tonight, the fire keeps burning, and burning, and burning, and he can feel the two of them becoming speeding trains, unable to stop themselves. He bites down on her lower lip and asks her in a ragged whisper, "Do you...want to?"
She inhales sharply, like she's considering it, but then she bites him back, harder. "Yes."
With enormous difficulty, he withdraws from the kiss and coaxes her legs off of him. She climbs off and offers him a hand up. He takes it and she pulls him into her and kisses him again. And, somehow, they manage to negotiate themselves towards his bedroom, never quite able to let the other go. It's like if they wait long enough between kisses, they will realize what they're doing and stop. And neither of them wants to stop.
He rips the covers away and falls onto the bed. She falls onto him and for a second he sees stars. His blood is boiling hot. His hand goes up her shirt, and he gets to work on her bra.
The undressing is ultimately what makes this feel undeniable and real. Because away go his pants and her pants and his shirt and her shirt, and then their respective underwear, and all the last trappings of their work lives. She is Ziva in a way that she can never be in the office, and he is Tony, and at last they are just flesh on flesh. Soul on soul.
She's ready and he's ready. They've been ready a long time. So he stops thinking about it, and lets everything change. She gets there and he gets there and it's surrender. Release.
She rests her head on the pillow, breaths heavy, eyelids flickering. And he rests his head on her chest, exhausted, exhilarated. They lay there for a while like that, pressed up against each other. Maybe minutes, maybe hours. Neither of them dare to look at the clock on his bedside table. They just lay there together.
He kisses her neck, then wraps his arm around her shoulders, gathers up her hair and strokes the curls, smoothing them out, over and over and over. His free hand rests on his stomach, until she finds it and squeezes it tight. And she falls asleep like that, cuddled up against him, his hand in her hers the only real thing about this unearthly night.
Some time around four in the morning, Ziva stirs. Tony is still asleep, his snores like far-off thunder. For a second, she thinks they are what woke her.
But that's not it. Not really. She woke up because she forgot she was in his bed, not hers, and when she couldn't subconsciously find her gun beneath her pillow, she awoke to find it.
She wants to go back to sleep, but she finds she can't. She hasn't had many sleepovers recently - none at the other party's place, anyway - and it's unsettling, lying on someone else's sheets, no gun to protect her. Even if it's Tony. Even if she does mostly feel safe here.
She places a lot of stock, and trust, in her gun. She's ready to defend herself on a moment's notice, even at her most vulnerable, when she's in bed asleep. To not have that security spooks her. Not for the first time today, she wonders what exactly she is doing, sleeping with Tony DiNozzo. The consequences range everywhere from trivial to potentially devastating. She ought to know better. They were just bombed a few days ago. Is this really the best time to be pursuing a personal relationship with her co-worker?
She considers leaving, right here and now. Tony's still asleep, and she's had plenty of practice sneaking out quietly in the early morning. He would probably feel hurt to find her missing when he awoke, but he has to realize it isn't personal, right? He has to realize that this is just what she does. She very rarely stays the entire night. And she does have to go home, shower, get a change of clothes before going to work.
It's a practical decision, not a personal one.
She agonizes, but she gets up gingerly, peeling his fingers off her one by one. She is so very careful, but as she removes her hand from his, he starts awake, confused.
He is so honest in this moment between sleep and consciousness. Like an open book, she sees the ripples his emotions make. Shock. Confusion. Disappointment. Then, neutrality, because he knows he's already given away too much. His hand is limp on the bed in the spot she had just occupied.
"I have to get ready for work," she tells him. "I need my clothes."
"Weren't you going to tell me?"
"Didn't want to wake you up."
"But you did."
"Not on purpose." She plucks her underwear off the floor and slips into it, searches for her clothes. "Tony, it's nothing personal."
He says nothing to that, but she can tell from his silence that he doesn't believe her.
"Honestly. What would Gibbs say if I walked in wearing the same clothes as yesterday?"
"He wouldn't care."
"He would notice."
He runs a hand through his hair, sighing. He has just woken up and he's already tired.
"All right," he says. "I'll see you at work."
He gets out of bed, puts on his boxers, and heads to the bathroom. Hating herself for missing her gun and not getting out quietly enough, she puts on her clothes and leaves the apartment.
The glimmer of easiness and pleasure they found the night they watched Goldfinger never really makes another appearance over the next few days. Again, they dance, back in challenge position, mirroring the other but never taking the lead.
They go out to dinner with McGee and Abby two nights later, as celebration for McGee's recovery. And, hesitantly, he asks her out to dinner the next night by themselves, to a little Mexican place Tony likes.
Hesitantly, she comes over after dinner, but they don't sleep together. They just have coffee again and Tony picks another movie. It's like they're both too afraid of going there again, yet they can't stay out of each other's orbit for very long.
Hesitantly, they keep dancing.
Hesitantly, he gently pushes her to take more of a lead, and hesitantly, she brings him to her apartment for the first time. Hesitantly, they allow themselves to enjoy the evening, making dinner together, pasta and chicken and something and something, anything, because playing with the vegetables and burning things by mistake and laughing is the part that he'll remember, not the food (which, despite his best efforts, turned out quite good).
Hesitantly, they make out some more, on her couch this time, and he lets his hands wander, like a blind man reading braille, learning the curves and hollows and scars on her body.
And, hesitantly, hesitantly, he stays the night that night, in her bed. They don't have sex, but they lay together like quotation marks, fitting into the shape of the other exactly. And when they wake up, her palm is open, lying face-up on his open palm, their fingers intertwined.
Hesitant as they are, this is happening. It's escalating. They spend their limited personal time together now. They play pretend at work - and they're getting better at it everyday - but in the evenings, it's just them, and it's taking longer to figure out who they are when there aren't any case files or leads or calls or interviews to bother with. She is still a little reserved, happiest when they are quiet and alone together, like on one of their couches or sleeping in one of their beds. He lets her choose the pace but he is the one who asks her to go places, because he likes to be with her and the nights he goes home alone feel even emptier than they used to. And she lets him, because she can't deny that she likes to go places with him too.
Some moments are light and fun and easy. Others are just awkward. But slowly - hesitantly - they are bumbling further and further into each other's lives. They are finding their rhythm. They are learning how to taste everything. And there's no going back.
A week later, after another sleepover night, Tony walks into the office with a smile on his face.
This is not a very unusual occurrence - Tony usually does come in beaming about something or another - but today, he isn't beaming. He's just smiling. Not a big one, not an overt one, but a strangely private one. And it makes him glow, with health and confidence and pride. It's a smile Ziva has rarely ever seen on him, but he wears it well. He says hi to McGee and to Ziva and settles in at his desk.
"How are you, Tony?" she asks.
"I'm happy," he says.
"Great," she says, because there isn't anything else to say.
She goes back to what she was doing, but it takes her a while to figure out what exactly is knotting up her stomach so tightly.
She realizes it's because she's perplexed.
His happiness perplexes her. She is glad for him, but it confuses her. The way he said it - so casually, so baldly, like she was asking him an easy math question - it reminds her that this is real. Every bit of it. They are living their own lives, not anyone else's. So what's at stake - that's real too. And it's fucking scary, because this is not how they are. They have never been normal people.
Ziva spends the rest of the day worried, because Tony is happy and she doesn't know what to do with that information.
Life continues to change, in subtle and less-subtle ways, over the following days.
Construction at the office is loud and almost insufferable; the team has to yell, or at least cluster more closely, to make sure they are heard. The workers are all over the floor, which makes privacy a problem. Abby is still shaky after the bomb, and McGee still gets bad headaches if he's too close to loud noises. When Tony and Ziva banter, there is a little more electricity, a little extra subtext behind the words. And lately, they find themselves more protective of each other than usual when in the field.
He covers her more often now than he did before, staying at her six, ever vigilant. And she is the same, she sticks close, and never wavers. They don't say anything, but they know what's happening and that it's a result of what they've been doing during their private time.
It's better than being lax, or letting work slip, but it's still something different. An extra impulse that dictates what they do. Another thing to get used to.
The team is beginning to figure them out, too. Gibbs gives them construction-drill stares whenever they're interacting, as though trying to piece something together. And one day, he finally stops, as though he has what he's looking for. He hasn't said anything - not yet - but the lecture is coming. Gibbs is just waiting for his moment to speak.
And McGee and Abby are onto it too. McGee, at least, can hide it, for the most part, but Abby's open-book expressions give the whole story away. McGee thinks he knows, and he's told Abby, and Abby thinks she knows, but McGee has probably given her strict instructions not to bring it up, so she has to satisfy herself with big-eyed puppy looks full of curiosity.
When they're alone, Tony and Ziva never talk about the relationship, and its now firm cementation into their lives, but it's something that weighs heavily on both of them. This team is family; what they're doing feels a little like incest. Like they're violating some fundamental rule by admitting their attraction to each other and acting on it. Work hasn't been affected, but that's only a matter of time, isn't it? These things are bound to affect them sooner or later. It seems that in their case, it's later. But later always comes and Ziva, especially, is terrified of what she will find.
Is this change really what they want? The question must be asked. Because right now it's like they're building this colossal card house to the stars, and at any moment, it may give out, bury them in the rubble of their own daring extravagance.
This is strange and new and exciting and wonderful, but it's also dangerous. They've both been here before, burrowing into high-stake relationships, desperately willing them to work out. And in the past, they just haven't.
Who's to say the worst won't happen this time too? Who's to say they won't break each other's hearts?
Ziva, at least, doesn't think she can bear such a thing.
Uneasiness is palpable in them after that, almost like a physical presence shadowing their every move.
It's the calm before the thunderstorm, the dry heat before the wildfire. All the pieces are in place; they just need a catalyst to set them off.
On some level, they know this. But on another, they can't afford to know it. Their relationship is too young, too tender, to stand up to the threat of fate's wrath.
So they go on and on, letting the cards stack, the storm build, the fire gain energy.
They wait. It's their only option.
The catalyst does indeed arrive soon after, and it presents itself in the form of Timothy McGee, who happens to get out of the building earlier than he had intended.
Tony and Ziva staggered their departures so as not to arouse suspicion, and they meet in the parking lot, talking, talking. Tonight, it's her turn to take them out somewhere and she is trying to decide on a place. Tony is trying to convince her to come with him in his car. Ziva is trying to convince him to follow him in his car. And Ziva is so anxious, and she's taking this far too seriously, in his opinion, and Tony can't help it. He grins, puts a finger to her moving lips, and then kisses her, right there in the parking lot.
It's a brief, sweet little kiss – mainly intended to shut her up so that they can redirect the conversation – but McGee found out upstairs that he didn't have to do the report he would have stayed to do, and now he comes downstairs to the parking garage, and he catches them kissing.
They don't realize it at first. But McGee, trying to be friendly, calls out, "Hey, guys!"
They jump two feet in the air and step away from each other so fast, to the untrained eye, they could have been electrocuted.
"McGee!" Ziva runs a nervous hand through her hair, her head buzzing with potential explanations.
"Going home, Tim?" Tony asks, his smile bright, but his words squeezing through gritted teeth.
"Yeah, I am. Good night!" McGee's smile is the slightest bit smug as he waves good-bye and turns to find his car.
Ziva looks at once to Tony, and Tony looks to Ziva. She's upset; he's confused.
She tells him, "I'll drive."
He tells her, "Oh hell no. I'll drive and you tell me where to go."
She opens her mouth to argue, but figures it's not worth it. She opens his passenger door and slips inside.
They drive to the restaurant in near silence, except for Ziva giving him driving instructions. They land up at a tiny pizza place tucked away in the corner of the street – and there's no place inside to sit. Tony looks at her quizzically.
"I wasn't in the mood for anything fancy," she explains with a shrug, unapologetic. "They have the best veggie pizza in town. There's a bench outside here, or we can take it home."
"Let's take it home. My place or yours?"
She hesitates. "Actually, it's nice outside right now. Why don't we sit here on the bench?"
His confusion shows but he does his best to take this in stride. Clearly, she's in a bit of a mood tonight. So he says, "All right," and they order a veggie pizza to split. He is about to offer to pay the bill, but she slams down her half of the money so fast, he suspects she had it hidden in her pocket as he picked the toppings. He puts down his half and they wait in more silence for the pizza.
When it comes five minutes later, Tony has to admit, Ziva is on to something, because this is the best pizza he's ever eaten, and he's Italian. They sit outside on the (hard, uncomfortable, probably unsanitary) bench and eat their share, watching the street, all the neon lights and the people walking by.
Ziva's right, it's a beautiful night – warm, but with a gentle breeze. The noise of the street makes for a nice soundtrack. Tony polishes off the last of his pizza, and asks, "So, are we going to talk about what happened in the parking garage?"
Slowly, she chews on her pizza. She's so quiet for so long that he almost thinks she's not going to answer – but he's wrong. A few minutes later, she bursts out, "What the hell are we doing here, Tony?"
He's so taken aback, he drops his napkin. It flutters like a square, ghostly leaf across the road. "What do you mean?"
"I mean, all of this." She swallows down her pizza and faces him straight-on, her hair blowing behind her with the wind. "The pizza. The dinners. The sleepovers. The kissing in the parking garage. What are we doing?"
"Eating. Sleeping. And kissing," he responds truthfully.
She throws him a dirty look. "Be serious, please."
"Actually, I am." He drops the court-jester smirk. "I really thought that's what we were doing. Eating, sleeping, kissing – having a relationship."
"Has it ever crossed your mind that maybe we're still shell-shocked from the bomb a couple of weeks ago?" she asks him. "I mean, is this really what you want?"
It's not like he hasn't had his doubts, over this time that they've been together, but with her sudden blitzkrieg, he finds he's ready to defend them.
He says, "So…you think the reason that I am sitting here, eating pizza with you, is because NCIS got bombed?"
"Not directly, and not completely, but it's something we have to think about." She sounds so tired, so strained. "We were in the elevator, trapped and unsure who was living and who was dead, and that was the first time we kissed. And I get it. We were under stress. Our home was under siege. We wanted stability, security. But—"
"I still don't understand," says Tony. "You think I kissed you because we got bombed?"
She opens her mouth to answer, but he doesn't want to hear it. He tells her, "I didn't kiss you or sleep with you or spend my time with you because we got bombed, Ziva. I did it because I wanted to. Because I thought you wanted to."
"The bomb—"
"I don't know about you, but for me, the bomb reminded me that there are still things I want to do and see and feel and be before…well, before the end." Catching his honesty, he blushes hard.
And even in the dark, he can see she's blushing too.
"I just…don't want to be reacting to something," she says, also more carefully. "And we don't even know yet if it's a good idea. Tony, I'm not saying I don't want to do this, but you have to realize – we are barely sleeping anymore. How can we do our jobs if we don't sleep? If we're unfairly invested in each other? And what's supposed to happen when one of us screws up, or Gibbs has a moment of inspiration, and he tells us to watch ourselves? This job, it means everything to me. I cannot lose it. Not even for us."
"I don't want to lose our jobs either," he says. "But I don't think we will. I think…well, I think when the moment comes, we'll be okay."
"That is incredibly vague," she points out.
"Well, so is all of this," he tells her. "I mean, you asked me what we were doing here, and in truth, I don't know. I don't know. But I don't think that's something to be afraid of."
"Why not?"
"It means no expectations," he says. "It means, we can just do what we want and see what happens."
She bites down on her lip, eyes shiny. She's broken down all the way now, the way she was in the bar that night, vulnerable and soft. "I need something…permanent," she admits.
Without thinking, his hand finds hers and squeezes it tight. "I need that too. But you know I can't promise you permanent. Like I can't promise you we won't get bombed again, or react to one."
She curls her fingers around his, squeezes him back. "I've tried this before. The commitment thing. It blew up in my face."
"It's blown up in mine too."
"Am I really your best bet?"
He sighs. He wishes he knew how to answer her questions better, more definitively. He wishes he could be the steady, always-believing rock in this relationship, because obviously, that's what she wants. But he knows that inside, he's asking exactly the same questions.
So he tells her, "I don't know. But, I do know that I like this. Us. I want more of it."
Her eyes meet his, steady and sincere. "Me too."
Both of them squeeze tight, holding on to each other under the cover of the stars.
"You want to come back to the Café DiNozzo for some coffee?"
Her smile is weak, watery, but it's there and it's real and it's warm.
"All right."
They step into his apartment, and before he even makes it to the coffee pot, she stops him. Grabs his hand, runs her thumb in circles over and over that delicate patch of skin on the underside of his wrist. His nerve endings tingle. He lets her draw him into her – and right there, in the entrance of his apartment, she kisses him. It's soft, gentle, only lips on lips, like the first time.
And in a way, it is kind of like the first time. This is the first time they have kissed without doubt, or shame. It is truly what she wants right now, and her kiss is all the sweeter for it.
This isn't the end of the shame or the doubt – that much, they are both aware of. There will be much more of those later on. Because whatever this is, whatever they are, it's not going to be easy. A new landscape is emerging out of the rubble of the bomb-blast and no one can say what else is to come.
It's true, what Tony said to Ziva in the elevator. The Earth did move. The tectonic plates beneath their feet that keep their world stable have shifted irrevocably, and everything is different now. Their world has changed. And they are changing with it. They have made their choices, and they choose each other. This much, at least, will not change in a hurry.
She breaks the kiss and leads him to his bedroom, almost like this place is home. They fall back on the bed, and she is on top of him, and his hand is up her shirt, and this is faster and slower and scarier and more exquisite than anything they've ever done.
She blossoms tonight and lets him in. And he fills her up like she's the bottle and he's the glitter and together, they shine. And through it all, one of his hands is always wrapped around one of hers.