This is what happens when my week of vacation, an NCIS hiatus, and a complex episode all coincide. ANOTHER tag to 10x10 (not at all related to the first) and this time heavy on the Tony/Ziva. :)

"Tony?"

Ziva sounded confused, not that he could fault her. He had tried for hello upon answering the phone but was fairly certain the noise that came out of his mouth wasn't even in the same phonetic family. "Got a case?" he managed semi-coherently.

"No," Ziva replied. "We need to talk."

He reached up a hand to swipe at his still-closed eyes. "We are talking."

"No, in person."

"M'kay," he responded, and she was left waiting for a full five seconds, during which Tony had almost fallen back asleep.

"I meant now," she said exasperatedly.

He heaved a colossal sigh and finally forced one eye open to squint at the bedside clock. "It's three AM. Why does it have to be now?"

"Because I'm downstairs."

That woke him up more effectively than anything else she had said thus far. "It's twenty degrees outside Ziva, what in the hell are you doing here?"

"I told you, waiting for you to come outside and talk to me," she answered patiently.

Tony balked - there was something incredibly illogical in that argument, but he still wasn't quite awake enough to contradict it, so he just muttered another okay and forced himself from the warm tomb of blankets.

Despite the layers he'd managed to pull on, the blast of icy December air sent a chill up his spine. Ziva was parked across the street, leaning against her car door and regarding him amusedly.

"It's friggin freezing out here, come inside," he called out, watching as his breath escaped in foggy bursts.

She just shook her head. "I'm okay. I just needed to ask you something." He shuffled across to her and waited expectantly. She cocked her head to the side, her brow creasing in a little frown. "Why have you never invited me over here?"

He stared back incredulously. "I just asked you inside! Where I have heat, and coffee, and an electric blanket with your name on it." He made a grab for her arm to drag her back to the door.

"Tony -" Her voice caught him off-guard. It wasn't her warning growl or exasperated sigh, the two tones he was most familiar with. Instead that one word was small and borderline insecure. He turned back to her, his hand falling awkwardly from her coat sleeve.

She glanced down self-consciously and gave a half hearted shrug. "I realized something tonight. Last week, when your father asked if your apartment was big enough for him, no one else answered. So I assumed they didn't know either."

Tony frowned, and for the first time in this surreal and befuddling night, he could see where she was heading.

"But they do know, don't they? They just waited for me to answer because Senior was asking me directly."

He fidgeted, rubbing a hand over the stubble on his cheek. Her frown deepened at the unspoken answer. "Was it because I never invited you to that dinner party all those years ago?"

"Jesus, Ziva. Do you really think I'm that shallow?"

She huffed, glaring to the side and crossing her arms. "Look, I know I am being ridiculous! I have been staring at my bedroom wall for the past several hours telling myself just how ridiculous and weak and…and idiotic I am being. I have absolutely no right to come here and demand answers like some jealous girlfriend…" her voice trailed off and she swallowed hard before looking back at him. "But I am asking for them. For why you've let everyone else in except me?" she finished quietly.

Tony sighed, dropping his head wearily as he moved to lean beside her. The truth was, he liked compartmentalization. He loved them all like family, but he needed to come home at the end of the day and leave the horrors and weight of their jobs behind. And that included all of them.

Of course, that was nice in theory, but it hadn't always worked out that way. Nobody could keep Abby out once she had her mind set, and she liked to show up when she needed a shoulder to cry on or when she worried he was obsessing over something. Tim had been sucked in a few times as his designated driver. And Gibbs… well, Gibbs had, in fact, only been to his place once. Tony didn't even remember listing him as an emergency contact on his lease renewal, but his landlord certainly did and made a point of calling the older man after one particularly destructive and terrifying night. By the end of it, nearly every breakable item in Tony's apartment lay in pieces, he had eleven stitches running up his forearm, and Gibbs had confiscated his weapons for a week.

That was eleven days after Tony heard the words Damocles and no survivors.

No, in truth he had never particularly wanted to let the others in, but over the years he had done so resignedly and often gratefully. But Ziva was different, and it hadn't been a question of whims or quirky idiosyncrasies with her for a long time - it was a matter of primal self-preservation. He couldn't let her in. Couldn't wander his apartment and have real and tangible memories of her there. Rummaging through his fridge complaining about the lack of food...lingering undecidedly in front of his movie collection...sitting beside him on the couch, legs tucked beneath her, untidy curls tumbling over her shoulders. Her touch and scent and memory already lingered too strongly in every other facet of his life; he didn't dare let her haunt him at home lest his sanctuary become his own personal hell.

The problem was, how was he supposed to verbalize this to her now when he could barely admit it to himself? Taking a deep breath of frigid air, he turned towards her. God only knew how much time had passed as he contemplated her question, but if the concerned look on her face was any indication, it was significant. And yet, there was something else there behind the concern. Understanding. Tenderness. She gave him a sad smile and a little nod. Clearly she had read the silent musings on his face anyway without one word being spoken. Because that's just how they were.

Only…

He was tired of the unspoken. He was tired of nothing more than weighted glances and loud silences. He found himself wanting to tell her everything, to admit the words aloud for the first time with her right by his side. After all, he had been the one encouraging her to open up.

The post-elevator us. The open book. Baring our souls.

And so he pushed off the car and held out a freezing hand. "Let's go talk inside," he said softly.

She frowned suddenly and shook her head. "I don't want the invite now Tony, just to save us from the cold and -

"Ziva," he cut her off. "Come upstairs. Come upstairs because I want you to."

She hesitated for several long seconds, chewing on her lip. But after what felt like an eternity, she reached out, tentatively taking the offered hand in hers and allowing him to lead her across the street and through the door.

It was the first of many steps they would take that night.

One tag wasn't enough. This one was apparently lurking right behind the other one; I just couldn't see it till the first was written! But then I hit writers block...a big fat ugly writers block that wouldn't budge and I couldn't make this story work. So I got frustrated, and when I'm frustrated, I clean. I vacuumed for an hour and a half. The deep, move-furniture-take-the-cushions-off-the-couch type vacuuming and didn't stop till I had this all finally mapped out in my head. And now my story is written AND my apartment is clean...thank you to my Hoover muses! :)

I may continue this if the mood strikes again...and if the world doesn't end and all...