I have no idea what came over me with this one. Blame holiday-season hysteria...It'll probably be a one-shot, but I've left it open in case of more madness with the muse. It's a sequel to my 'Homeland' fics, but can be read on its own too. Gibbs / Ziva / Zibbs, and explaining away the desecration of Rule 12 - trying to, at least. As always, reviews welcome! (But please be nice, I'm working 14 hour days in between now and Santa!).

I do not own any of the characters, books or poems mentioned here. Wish I did, but just borrowing them for a while.

"Fairy tales are more than true; not because they tell us that dragons exist, but because they tell us that dragons can be beaten."― G.K. Chesterton

He loved to watch her read.

Gibbs ran the sander over a small section of the wooden boat, taking his time, following the grain. He liked this part of the work. It took patience, and calm, a slow but sure touch. It was the perfect antidote to his usual working day. As he ran his fingers over the light-colored wood, so smooth now it almost felt varnished, his eyes wandered to the woman curled up in the corner of his basement. Deciding that he could take a break, he placed the sander down quietly on the workbench and poured himself a finder-width of bourbon into an empty nail jar. He leaned against the bench and studied her. She sat on an over-sized cushion, her legs tucked under her, book open in one hand and a mug of herb tea in the other. Her dark brown hair, curly and soft from her earlier shower, fell over her shoulders and across her face, and her brow was furrowed in concentration as she read. He smiled to himself, his pleasure mixed with a sense of wonder that she was here at all.

It had only been two weeks since their trip to Israel, and the night they had spent together there had changed the basis of their relationship completely. He would never forget what she had shared with him. They had not talked about it since their return, but every night after work she had been here, sat in his basement reading while he worked on the boat. He had offered to bring her a comfortable chair down, but she refused, saying she liked the cushion. She did not always stay over, and when she did, she did not always sleep in his bed. When he asked her about it, she replied that it was best not to rush things. Her eyes had asked him silently to understand. She wanted him close, but also needed space to get used to him. He did understand. Ironically, a relationship in Israel was much easier than a relationship in DC. Here, he was not just her friend and lover but also her boss. They were getting to know each other on a whole new level. And, he admitted to himself, he was enjoying it.

'What's the book?'

Ziva looked up, startled. She had almost forgotten that he was there. Her frown of concentration relaxed when she saw him watching her, and she lowered her book to return his smile.

'Pablo Neruda'.

She reads poetry?

She laughed at his surprised expression.

'Yes, Jethro. I read poetry. Specifically, at this point, I Like It When You're Quiet'.

'That a hint?'

'No, a love poem'.

Love poetry?

She flicked through the pages. 'My other favourite is The Fable of the Mermaid and the Drunk'.

'You gonna read me some of these poems?'

She smiled again. 'I might. Someday'.

So there's going to be a someday. A future. With love poetry. A happy ever after? He took a swallow of bourbon.

'So what else do you like to read?'

She shrugged. 'Anything. Everything. Well, not quite everything. Tony lent me the Twilight saga….'. She smirked. 'I read chapter one. I have just finished Susan Glaspell. Fidelity. Hence the Neruda, I wanted a change'.

'You ever read fairy tales?'

She laughed again. 'I may be younger than you, Jethro, but I am still a bit old for fairy stories'.

He shook his head, smiling, and picked up the sander again.

'Never too old, Ziva'.

This time it was her turn to watch as he worked. She had been here so many times before, but the past two weeks had been different. For obvious reasons, she thought wryly. She was not here as a friend or colleague, but as…..what? Girlfriend? Lover? She found herself idly wondering how many other women had sat in the corner, watching him chisel and saw and sand. Diane. Hollis. Jenny. Shannon….

'Do you believe in happy endings, Jethro?'

He looked over at her, briefly surprised by her question, before turning back to the boat.

'Why do you ask?'

She wrapped her hands around her mug, swirling the dregs of tea around the bottom.

'You talked about fairy stories. They usually have one'.

'You've never read Brothers Grimm'.

She smiled in acknowledgement, and put down her mug, stretching out her legs and leaning against the wall.

'I suppose the monsters are real enough. Happy endings might be too much to ask for'.

He sighed and put down the sander. Picking up his bourbon, he walked over to her cushion. She shifted over to make room for him and he sat down next to her, slipping an arm around her shoulders.

'Talk'.

She reached over for the nail jar and took a mouthful of the fiery liquid, feeling it burn her throat and stomach. She grimaced, and handed him back the jar.

'It might take me a while to get used to that stuff'.

'Don't need to get used to it. I'll get you in something different'.

She was silent, leaning back against his arm and staring at the boat. He tapped her lightly on the shoulder.

'Talk to me'.

Ziva turned to look at him, opened her mouth to speak, then thought better of it and turned away again, shaking her head. He smiled, and bent his head to kiss her neck.

'Maybe this would help'.

His lips lightly traced the line from her neck up to her jawbone and her cheek, so lightly it was ticklish. She bent away, laughing, but he followed, reaching round to tickle the spot on her ribs that he had discovered was particularly sensitive. Shrieking with laughter, she fell backwards onto the floor, pulling him with her into a deep kiss.

When they finally broke apart, he sat up and looked down at her.

'So?'

She sighed.

'Happy endings, Jethro. Dragons. Monsters. Wicked witches. Rules'.

He took another swallow of bourbon. He thought he knew where this was going.

'Rule 12'.

She hesitated, then nodded.

He sighed and leaned back against the wall.

'I do not want you to regret what we have done…what we are doing. I know you said that you wanted us to be together, but…..'

'It still bothers you'.

He looked down at her for a long moment.

'Dragons and monsters and wicked witches….they're there to be beaten, Ziva. Make the good guys look good'.

'And the rules?'

He gave a half smile. 'Well, maybe they're there to be broken occasionally'.

She raised her eyebrows.

He sighed again. He wasn't much good at talking, and even worse at explaining his feelings.

'The rules….well, they were Shannon. She used to say everyone needs a code they could live by'. He paused again, reaching for the jar. 'But she meant a code. Not a diktat'. Another swallow.

'I made my own rules. Rule 12…that was Jenny'. Another pause, another swallow.

'Paris?' Ziva's voice was quiet.

'She told you?'

Ziva nodded. 'In Cairo. We talked a lot. I have noticed…being in danger has that effect'.

He nodded. 'Didn't work out. So….Rule 12'.

He looked down at Ziva, still half-lying on the floor. She had got under his skin in a way that no one had since Shannon. He loved her strength, her courage, her vulnerability. Who's the good guy?

'But you're not Jenny'.

'Glad you noticed', Ziva responded drily.

Gibbs gave a half-smile, and shrugged. 'Wrong place, wrong time'.

'And us?' Ziva spoke in barely more than a whisper.

'Right place. Right time. Right person. Rule 5'.

She thought quickly, but nothing came to her. What the hell is Rule 5?

Gibbs' smile broadened as he saw her confusion. 'You don't waste good', he supplied. His expression suddenly became serious, and he reached out to stroke her cheek. 'You're too good, Ziva'.

He bent down to kiss her again.

'But if you're still worried, there's always Rule 51'.

She pushed him away slightly, confused, and he grinned at the expression on her face.

'I added one. Not one that I want broadcasting'.

She raised her eyebrows again.

'Sometimes you're wrong'.