a/n: delving into Tiva again-couldn't get this particular idea off my mind. i'm sure 1001 tags to Berlin have been done, but i'm witting of the nature of any of them; like i've said: i write Tiva, but i don't read it. so here's my little (late) contribution; just like I threw my tag to 'Jet Lag' in with everyone else's.
please note: I consider myself particularly skilled at writing Ziva (though I wouldn't go on this fic alone) but I'm poor at writing Tony unless it's in relation to Gibbs, usually, or lighter situations with Ziva. so, fair warning.
set: directly after the hotel/nap scene in 'Berlin'.
kartenhaus
german; "house of cards"
He fumbled; he did his best to say something comforting—something vaguely appropriate, but what came out was an unsophisticated platitude that seemed wholly irrelevant to the gravity of her laying in bed next to him:
"We'll get Bodnar tonight."
Her lashes twitched; she seemed to stop a blink from occurring, in an effort to keep eye contact, and politely acknowledge that he was trying to help, to be kind, and to respect her boundaries.
She said:
"I know."
Her lips met again after she said the words, touched lightly, and parted again. She breathed out, and he saw the uncertainty in her eyes—she wanted to believe him; she wanted the confidence, the bravado—the optimism—that he always had when it came to winning the game—she wanted that.
But—she didn't have it.
He was from a culture in which he knew his right to exist in the world was secure, his everyday life unthreatened, where fighting meant football games and wrestling matches, and military clashes meant sensationalized media debates and abstract images of world power—but she was a woman used to fighting, used to feeling like the loser even when she, or Israel, or Mossad, pulled a victory—and she had lost the last of her childhood and the last of a more peaceful time—
-and she didn't believe him when he said: We'll get Bodnar tonight.
Perhaps because she knew Ilan would slip through their fingers; perhaps, on a more daunting scale, because she knew the monsters she had always hunted were hers to always hunt, and she would never get them—because when she got one, three more rose from some darkness that seemed to have woven itself into her life since—since Tali had died, or since her mother had left or—
She couldn't pinpoint it.
She pushed her fingers into the mattress tensely. Her muscles ached. She felt like she hadn't unclenched her jaw in a thousand years.
She lowered her lashes in a slow blink, shielding herself from his dashing, all-American, distinctly DiNozzo gaze for just a moment.
In that moment—the barest of seconds—he reached out and pressed his palm against her cheek, and his hand slid backwards until he found the thick elastic tie holding her hair up. He started to tug on it gently, and it felt unexpectedly good—so she let it continue, and she kept her eyes lightly closed.
He pulled diligently, carefully, until he had unloosed one, two, then three circles and flicked the elastic tie across the room. His hand started moving through her hair, remaining calm even when he came to worried knots and tangles, working through the mass of thick curls as if it were the most important thing in the world.
Such an inane action—such a seemingly meaningless action—and it felt so good.
She drew in a deep breath, and her eyes fought to open—but she kept them closed. She could afford to let him touch her for a this brief frozen second in time; she could pause to see what he was offering, and she could dally in a split second while he cautiously pushed at the carefully laid boundaries of—
His hand moved down her back, resting just below her tight shoulder blades, and his weight shifted; her pillow dipped, and she felt the soft roughness of his lips brush the corner of her mouth—
Her eyes opened abruptly. She couldn't stop the elevation in her pulse, the slam in her heartbeat, or the heated red flush across her nose—but she could stop him, and the wariness in her suddenly wide-open eyes did halt him in his tracks.
She lifted her hand, and pushed it lightly against his chest—but he was already leaning back, eyeing her critically—suddenly just as wary of her as she was of him.
"Ziva," he said quietly, half-pleading, half-logical.
She shoved her fingers into his chest, but lifted her palm away; she didn't want to push him away; just to remind him—
"This is not how I want it to collapse," she said through her teeth, the very timbre of her words shaking with the stress and disquiet that had plagued her since her father had died.
His hand bunched a little, gathering material of her shirt into his fingers and clutching it lightly. He laughed a little—very casual, unconcerned, DiNozzo sort of laugh—and he cracked a smirk.
"It?" he asked. "You don't want—what to collapse?"
With her index finger, she gestured between them.
"The house of cards we have been—hiding in since," she paused, searching, "Somalia," she decided, surrendering some ground.
He gave her a dashing look.
"Wouldn't it be, uh—a sword of Damocles?" he drawled—but he wasn't wholly, confidently joking like he usually did—he wasn't sure the jape would go over—
-she bowed her head, and he recognized the crinkles in her forehead that meant she was smiling, or laughing under her breath. She bit her lip heavily and tilted her head back up, narrowing her eyes as she scrutinized him. She licked her lips, and then shook her head one more time—but she made no move to disentangle herself from him.
"I cannot think…about us," she said softly, "until I have a—healthier outlook on me."
She couldn't—let this thing with Tony collapse into a thing they would inevitable have to put together the right way until she had navigated her way out of the hell she was going through after losing her father—she had to put Bodnar, Eli, heartache—to rest before she could accept—happiness, stability, permanence—because she did not want to ruin him, what they should have, because she had used him as a crutch—
"Ziva," he said again, moving his hand up her back soothingly, and over her shoulder, and down her arm—he splayed his palm over her hip, his fingers finding their way under her soft, striped shirt, and near the waistband of her black pants.
"S'not about us right now," he muttered ineloquently. He shifted towards her, worming his other arm under her and slipping it into her hair. "You can't sleep," he said quietly. "You're tense," he added, his thumb circling her hip. "You need—relief."
Her brow arched slowly as she followed his train of thought.
"That," she said hoarsely, "I can do myself."
He grinned at her gently.
"What kind of gentleman would I be if I let you do that?"
She said nothing, but instead fell into protracted silence—retreating inside herself for a moment, thinking abstractly about what he was offering, and how his hands did feel—so good—
She breathed in a little too quickly, a little too lustily, and his lips brushed the corner of her mouth again. When she didn't stop him, he moved his hand around to her abdomen and then slipped lower, unfastening her slacks and loosening, pushing them slightly down her slim hips. Instead of resisting him—she shifted, and gave him easier access.
"Ziva," he said earnestly. "I won't—hold you to this," he promised. "We can talk about that…house of cards after we get 'im," he muttered.
Her head dipped in a sort of hazy nod; she closed her eyes, her hips shifting towards his hand.
She understood implicitly what he meant—that this meant something only in the context of this moment—that they didn't have to pinpoint this as the start of their relationship or some defining crossed line in what they were meant to be—it was just an isolated incident, tension release she so desperately needed, stress treatment—like all those hot Summer nights when Gibbs had gone to Mexico—
"Ah," she breathed out harshly, tilting her head back. She hooked one of her legs over his and reached down, maneuvering until she'd slipped her slacks off and kicked them to the floor.
He seized her and pulled her closer, giving a little satisfied growl at the lack of restriction, and he slid his hand under the soft material of her panties, his other hand at work in her hair again, stroking all the knots out to soft curls.
She furrowed her brow, biting her lip tightly, and curled towards him, almost holding her breath—it was like every twist of his finger, stroke of his hand, eased some of the tightly coiled mess inside of her, the stress that had been keeping her awake, and making her sore—and she sank into him, melted against him almost, until her forehead was pressing heavily into his chest and her breathing was ragged.
She dug her nails into his shirt, pulling him a little close, and he slid his hands over her at a near-perfect pressure, kneading, teasing, pulling—just enough to make her want to scream with frustration, but the good kind of blissful, relaxed frustration.
"Tony," she gasped hoarsely, her stomach tightening.
He resisted the urge to kiss her senseless, to strip the rest of her clothing off—and his—until they were both bare—and really take this where they needed to go, really consummate it—but she was right; he had to wait until she was in a better place, and this was just a favor, a baby step—respite, to hold them over.
She moaned aloud and pressed her mouth against him; her lips were warm and wet through his shirt, and he grit his teeth hard, fighting instinct and the screaming orders of his own body—he eased a finger inside her and, when he met no resistance, and she indicated no tension, he thrust in another and pushed in up to the knuckle, pressing her against him tightly—his fingers knotted in her hair.
Her breath caught in her throat—and he felt her abdomen tighten—he felt all of her tighten. She arched her back and gripped his shirt even tighter, a small, soft cry breaking through her teeth—
"Ken!"
Native Hebrew stumbled from her lips and somehow, it made him smile—he liked it; it seemed like a form of peace.
"Tony," she moaned. "Tony," she gasped again, satisfied.
All at once, she seemed to collapse and relax against him, all pliable, malleable sinew where she had been iron muscle and bone. It was surreal—she laid against him like-something cuddly and warm, like a kitten or something—not that he would ever tell her that.
He let her breathe—let her relax, and rest, and just revel for a moment in that relief from all the stress—
-and then he gently withdrew his hand from her, and disentangled his fingers from his hair—true to his promise; he backed off. He sat up and ran his hand through his hair, blinking rapidly—he took a deep breath, and draped his hands over his knees, wringing them out painfully.
She turned onto her back and drew one of her legs up, covering her face with her hand for a moment. She reached over, and took his hand—slipping her fingers into his.
"Danke schön," she murmured intently, running her own hand through her hair.
He squeezed her fingers.
He said:
"Prego."
-like he had eons ago, the night he met her.
He got up, and he headed for the—cold—shower. She had a few hours now to sleep restfully, until they geared up to—
"Ziva," he said, standing in the doorway of the hotel bathroom.
She looked at him.
"We'll get Bodnar tonight," he told her.
She looked at him, and ran her hand over her bare stomach, and lightly over her thigh.
This time—she believed him.
She said:
"I know."
toda!
-alexandra
story # 163