note: So it's been a while, actually, but I'm back with this thingy. I actually started it in May this year, but I got stuck and it's just sat around half-finished for months until the other week, when I opened it up, and after some poking and prodding, I managed to carry on.
It's set after the full interrogation scene from 9x14, including the deleted section, which ended, for those who are unaware, with Ziva swooping over the table and draping her handcuffed hands around Tony's neck. The end line was "Will he shoot her? Will she snap his neck? Or will they kiss?" and was left ambiguous. I decided to end said ambiguity. The script's online somewhere if you haven't seen it; it might help you get this a little more. Also, in this alternate reality, Tony isn't married to Kate. His wife is just... some random person you need know nothing about before reading this.
And, before you delve in, this is a little... different, theme wise. Things happen that some people may not agree with, but I hope I've justified it enough in the writing and it is not meant to offend or whatever. By writing it, I always don't deem it okay.
That was long. Sorry. Anyway, feel free to review!
disclaimer: yeah yeah, it's not mine.
listening to: Black Flies, by Ben Howard.
Her handcuffs press into his neck, her breath fanning across his face, and he knows he should stay cool. He should remain calm, ask her to remove her hands, and wait for her to sit back. But there's a wildness in her eyes that's hypnotizing, and her gaze keeps flitting to his lips, and damn her he needs to stop. Instead of that, though, he narrows his eyes, clenches his fist, and tilts his head up. Baiting her; daring her.
As she leans in, her scent fills his senses, and it's heady and spicy. Her eyes are calmer now, resolute, and just when he's sure she's gonna kiss him, the door flies open and he hears rapid words in a language he can't understand. Her gaze locks with his again, but it's dulled now, and she looks almost apologetic as she drags her hands back from behind his neck. His lips brush hers, somehow, and when she walks out followed by a guy in a suit that he doesn't care about, he wonders why he feels like he can taste her.
He's standing in the kitchen when he hears the quiet click in the lock. His first thought is that it's likely his wife, but that's actually not very likely at all, and something in the back of his mind makes him reach into a drawer and grab a knife.
"Agent DiNozzo?" comes a voice, and he staggers back.
"Officer David. This, uh, this is a surprise."
She pokes her head round the corner and he takes in her wicked grin.
"I remember you now. You thought I hadn't spotted you, but you were very obvious at taking those photos."
The side of his mouth quirks into a smile, and he places the knife back into the drawer.
"And you gave me pizza, I gave you coffee. That was... unusual, for me. I do not normally share such things with strangers."
And then, the memory's back in full force, and he remembers words about a sister torn from her life, about recruitment, about Gibbs.
"The circumstances were different then."
She tilts her head and frowns slightly.
"Were they?"
He walks toward her, slowly, until he's standing tall above her and he can see right into those dark eyes of hers. He doesn't answer.
"Where is your wife?" she asks, sounding almost tentative, and he's surprised at the sudden change of topic.
"I don't know. The same place she goes mainly every night, probably with the same person, whoever he is."
She catches on quickly, and looks to the floor, seemingly acting sorry for him.
"Y'know, that stint you pulled in interrogation today... That was very impressive."
She grins like she's just learnt a new secret.
"Thank you. I have been saving that one for a special occasion."
He steps even closer, bowing his head to her level, and he sees something change within her gaze.
"And I was that special occasion?"
"It would seem so."
"Well then, Ziva, I'm honoured."
She laughs slightly, and rises up on her tiptoes so she's near-looking him in the eye. And, when he just can't help himself, he leans in and kisses her, hungrily.
And there's more of that scent from earlier, but now he really can taste her and yes, it's addictive. He kisses her with all he's got and more and she kisses him back just as hard, and when they pull back for air he finds he's pressed her up against the kitchen counter. But now, he wants her, he wants her bad, and so instead of simply taking her there and then, he trails a kiss down her neck and tugs on her hand, pulling her with him until they stumble through to the bedroom.
"When do you have to leave?" he breathes, raggedly, into her ear, as she pulls his shirt out from his pants.
"Not for another two days." she replies, and he thanks whoever's listening that he gets more than a few, fleeting hours with her.
He pops another button on her shirt and looks her straight in the eye, and at the dark, lust-filled look he finds there, he presses his lips to hers again.
They have time.
He doesn't see his wife until another four days after Ziva's left. She stumbles through the door as he's playing with his own business card, and he tells her he wants a divorce. Her false smile falters, but she nods, and pulls some papers out of her bag.
Turns out he hasn't been the only one doing some thinking.
The business card is in his hand again, a mere ten days since he saw Ziva last. Her number's scrawled on the back in slightly smeared blue ink, and he runs his thumb over it once more before keying in the digits and calling her.
"David."
"Hey, Ziva."
He hears her breath hitch, audibly, then sudden, rapid footfall, and then, silence but for her breathing.
"...did you just run into an empty room to talk to me?"
"A closet, actually." She replies, not sounding at all ashamed of the fact, and he laughs more than he should at her composure.
"My wife came home, finally."
"Oh. Well, good, that is good. Wh— How... how are things?"
"I did exactly what I told you I was gonna do. I said I wanted a divorce, we filed the papers on Thursday."
"And you are okay with that?"
"I am. I'm relieved, honestly."
There's a smile in her voice when she next speaks, though her words are not very happy.
"Tony, I need to go, I'm sorry. Can I... call you later?"
He grins.
"Yeah, yeah I'll be waiting."
Many months later, he grins as he hears the familiar click of her picking up.
"Hey. You alright?"
"I am fine, Tony. Why, is there something wrong?"
He sighs.
"Nah, it's just you said nine and it's almost eleven now and..."
"I am so sorry, Tony. I got... held up."
"Hey, I get it, crazy Mossad life, shooting things, saving people, it's part of the job."
"Actually, I have been meaning to talk to you about that." She pauses, breathing in heavily, and an uneasy feeling settles deep in his stomach at her words. "That is not a part of the job for me anymore."
"What? I...don't follow."
"I screwed up, Tony, yes? People got hurt and now, I am having to move. Desk work."
"Oh god, are you okay? You weren't hurt, or anythi—"
"I am fine, Tony, I promise. Besides, that, is not what I wanted to talk to you about. Those in charge did not approve of my actions, and so, I am being assigned to the Israeli Embassy. Outside of Israel."
"Well, which embassy? Like, New York, London...?"
She doesn't respond, and his breath catches in his throat.
"Ziva?"
"Washington. Washington DC. I fly out in three days."
He meets her at the airport, of course. Stands in the arrivals hall surrounded by weeping mothers and anxious boyfriends and smartly-dressed people leaning over the barrier with papers in their hands. His own hands are shoved deep into his pockets, fingers brushing loose threads and crumbs as he curls and uncurls them nervously.
He hasn't seen her in months, and he has absolutely no idea where they stand.
When she walks through the crowds, carry-on trailing behind her, there's a thick woollen hat upon her head, bouncing up and down with each step. Her hair is a deep brown mane, thick and wild, and there's a wonderful, wonderful grin that spreads on her lips when she catches his eye. He pulls a hand out to wave, and his feet start to walk almost against his will.
He slides his arm round her and squashes her in a light hug, then slips his hand into hers. He's surprised when he insists on taking her bags, but is perhaps more surprised when she lets him.
"I know you don't exactly have a place to stay but the bed's still pretty comfy and I figured when you get bored of me I could help you find somewhere. I know the area, and I got some friends, so-"
Her lips cut off his nervous spiel, and he melts into the gesture before she pulls back.
"Well, that was nice." he says, his voice a little huskier than intended.
"Has anyone ever told you that you talk too much?"
He chuckles.
"Yeah, my co-workers, all the time."
She reaches up and smoothes her thumb over his cheek.
"Well they are correct. Stop talking, Tony."
He leans down to kiss her again, and does just that.
When they lie together, curled up in bed in the early hours of the morning, it feels like the first time all over again. Because last time, her departure was always on the horizon; last time, it felt like everything was just an attempt to postpone the inevitable.
Now, there's no rush. There's just the two of them and their tangled limbs and her hair sprawled out over his chest. It's perfect.
"What was that?"
He freezes, wondering if he said anything aloud, then clears his throat in an attempt to distract her.
"Mm? Nothing."
She hums as if considering his words.
"Okay."
Grinning, he presses his face into her hair, leaving a kiss on the curve of her neck as he moves.
"Alright."
And so they drift to sleep, tired and sated and tangled and bare, each deep breath of his taking in a scent he can't quite describe. But perfect, will do just fine.