A/N: Okay, so I think I'm getting back into the swing of things here. However, this doesn't seem to flow right, or it does and I'm just tired (both). Anyway, keep the peace and until next time, much love, hopefully soon, Kit.
DISCLAIMER: Seriously. You had to have seen this coming.
"Got a big date tonight?" he asks casually, watching as she gathers her things and goes through her end-of-the-day routine. He keeps his voice neutral, determined not to give anything away to her keen perception.
She swings her backpack over her shoulder, grabbing her keys from beside her printer, replying with a neutrality that he envies, "Um, no. I'm going home." And only then does she look up and meet his gaze, her dark eyes challenging him with silent mirth, daring him to make the next move.
And he will.
Eventually.
His apartment is immaculate, carpets recently vacuumed, shelves finally dusted. The kitchen is spotless and there are clean sheets on his bed that hasn't been made in a week. Everything all lemony fresh and pine-scented cleanliness.
And it only took him the better half of two hours.
A myriad of candles are set out on every available surface, flames dancing softly as the air circulates around the apartment. The lights are dimmed down and the little golden tongues unite in the task of illuminating the warm ambiance and, yeah, it really does look good. But as he stands surveying his work, he can't help but wonder if he's breaking any fire codes.
The timer beeps and he goes into the kitchen, turning on the recessed lights so he doesn't trip and kill himself. He presses the button, effectively shutting the alarm off, and, donning an oven mitt, opens the mighty maw of the stove tentatively.
The rush of tomato sauce and cheese inundates his olfactory senses, hints of rosemary and oregano settling in the air, the aroma infiltrating the apartment. His culinary masterpiece, an old family recipe found off the internet, cooked to utter perfection, a picture worthy of a publisher's press.
Lasagna a la DiNozzo . . . . $34.79
Movie night?
His fingers type out the text as he multitasks, sifting through a drawer, hunting for the elusive corkscrew. He presses send, moving on to the next possible hiding place the pesky, albeit vital, thing may be. There's ping denoting her reply and his triumphant cry as he brandishes the corkscrew with a flourish before peering down at his phone, smiling before he even registers her Yes.
It's a 1999 merlot that sparkles deep red within the embrace of two long-stem glasses. The light from the cluster of candles that are arranged around the table setting is throwing ruby shadows across the crisp linen cloth he's spread over the table. Silverware flanks the flat wear already bearing the main course, with a small bowl of strawberries placed next to her plate.
Bottle of wine . . . . $75.00
He remembers the music right when there's a knock with the door opening before he can even ask who it is.
She's standing in the doorway, frozen, utterly taken by surprise, as she stares into his apartment, astonished. The table is set and he's made dinner and there are candles and soft jazz is floating softly from the speakers. And he's standing there, grinning like an idiot, in jeans with his white dress shirt all wrinkled and her heart just stops.
"Tony," she says on an exhale, eyes asking a million questions a minute as a blush fades from her cheeks. He makes his way to her, taking her hand, and she moves almost trance-like as she steps into his apartment. "What is this?" she finally manages, looking at him with wide brown eyes and, yes, he's so got her this time.
"This, sweetheart," he tells her, "is for you."
"Am I forgetting something?"
"Nope."
"Then why-"
"Just because," he says with a shrug, plucking up a rose from the vase on the table and offering it to her. She takes it with steady fingers, instinctively lowering her face to the yellow bloom, the red tipped petals kissing her nose.
Roses . . . . $21.00
And Ziva looks all around her once more before staring up at him and that smile of hers? Is priceless.
A/N:?