Falling Slowly

by McGeekle

Tony and Ziva have been falling in love from the moment they met. That path has not been straight, nor narrow, nor entirely romantic. Ten years later, they have walked through the fire and come out the other side. Based on the song Falling Slowly from the musical Once.

Semi-based on the song Falling Slowly from Once. I hope you enjoy.

I don't know you, but I want you all the more for that

It's electric. She's electric. Every time she touches him, it's like a jolt runs through his veins, shocking him to attention. She's mysterious and exotic and there's no way any woman has ever gotten under his skin the way that she has. From the moment she stepped into the bullpen she's intrigued him. She enticed him with the obvious glint of mischief in her eyes, the casual sway of her hips, and the glimpses of the all too lethal assassin he knew sat waiting to strike. But it was the delightful colloquial confusion, the way her face squinched up when she laughed, and the soft spoken confessions in the rain that caught his attention. The dichotomy of this new partner was a challenge, the enigma he may never be able to crack. He certainly intends on trying.

She slinks around him, knowing exactly what her Mossad trained exterior does to him. She knows full well she's a tease in more ways than one. She touches him playfully and swings her hips a little more when he's around. He notices. He sees the twinkle in her eyes when he stares just a little too long, and the lust when she takes the time to give him a good look up and down. He smiles back at her, playing along in her little game, letting her think she's getting to him. He knows she is. What excites him more is knowing that he is getting to her. Their gazes linger just that much longer, and their banter starts to feel more like foreplay.

The first time they come together is one they could deem a mistake, an experiment; giving into the lust that they so clearly felt for one another. They could make excuses, say it was for the mission. But they know. He does push ups above her, simulating the act he's been envisioning with her since she slinked into his life not long ago. She nips at his chin when he moves down, pressing kisses wherever she can reach until her resolve gives in. She grabs him by the back of the neck and kisses him hard. It's no mystery what she wants from him, and he has no trouble complying with her request. Later she winks at him, satisfied. But their coupling has done nothing to quell the burning desire within them, it has only been amplified.

So when she falls into bed with him again, he isn't really surprised. The boss was gone, away for his Mexican siesta and there was nothing keeping them apart. She wasn't shy about it. She knew what she wanted, and as soon as the barrier keeping them apart fell away, she took it, many times over. And each time she opened herself up to him, he learned just a little bit more about what was underneath her hard exterior. The information was guarded, filtered, that much he knew. It just made him want her that much more. He wanted to learn everything there was to know about this girl. Every favorite thing, every defining moment, every scar. She kept coming to him, letting herself be released bit by bit.

Until one day, she didn't.

Words fall through me and always fool me, and I can't react

Years later, after his knowledge of her faded away, he finds himself with her again. Much has changed since they were together last. He fell in love. So did she. And though they would look back and see that these loves were never meant to be, that they fell heinously short of true love, they were as close as either had come. They convinced themselves that these loves they once held dear were truth. That the pain they'd brought upon themselves was too damaging to overcome. So even as their hearts slowly repaired and started beating a steady rhythm for one another, they pushed their feelings down and away. Hoping that if they ignored them for long enough, they would cease to be. They were wrong.

Even through the mashing of lips and gentle touches and tongues, they failed or refused to acknowledge the love residing between them. The stakes are much too high, and there is not nearly enough time. They have wounds to be healed, gaping painful wounds that need to be stitched with as much care as they could muster. And they try. Every moment they have together is heated, heady, intense. Each touch is deliberate, practiced as they move in tandem. He has not forgotten his knowledge of her body, and he makes it known. And though they fall back into couplings past as they attempt to lose themselves in each other, there is no escaping the grief, the loss that envelops them both.

She lay on his chest, sweaty tired, and silent save for her ragged breath. Even as she lay still, he could feel the tension she'd briefly lost building once again. He strokes her back as she presses herself into him, readying herself for what was to come. She pushed away from him, her lingering heat wicking away when she rolled to her side of the bed. He knew it was his cue to leave.

He dressed silently, weight of the day crushing his soul. He turned back to her, words trying to form on his tongue when none would truly suffice. They were parting ways, maybe forever. She to Israel and he to the sea, and there was nothing he could do or say to change it. So he kissed her one last time, hoping that one day when they met again, he would have the adequate words to say how exquisite she really was. He didn't know that when they finally did, he wouldn't get the chance.

And games that never amount to more than they're meant will play themselves out

She finds someone else. Who, he doesn't know, at least not for a while. He teases her about the new person in her life, pokes and prods her for information about the man he just knows exists. And for a while she lets him, playing it off as no more than the comforting banter they'd come to know. She teases him back, giving him non answers to his many probing questions. But as time goes on, the game is not one to be played just to play, but one to be won. His questions become intrusive and biting, her replies more bitter and sharp. The once soft blows are covered with barbs that cut like a knife.

He knows there's something about this guy, something he doesn't want to speak aloud. Something that will turn her even further away from what he knows is the truth. She asks him if he is jealous, and he denies such accusations even through concern and jealousy have been warring in his chest for months. And suddenly it's all too real. She figures out what he's suspected all along, and it bites her harder than anything ever has. He tried to put his faith in her, to give her the benefit of the doubt and hope their not so brief history will be enough to convince her to be on his side. He's wrong. Because it's not one single shot that ends the game, but four. Into the chest of the man she may have loved.

The sting of betrayal rocks them both, tearing them further apart than they've ever been. As she presses a gun to his chest, he knows anything they had, anything they could have had, was over. They'd broken every barrier, crossed every line, only to have the walls built back up, fortified to keep out the strongest of armies, and the softest of caresses. He mourns her, the loss of his partner and the trust they shared, his best friend. Only when the plane takes off one short does he realize that it really is over this time. Despite his every effort to keep her close, she was gone once again.

Falling slowly, eyes that know me, and I can't go back

He'd lost all hope, all drive, all will to live. She was gone, lost to the sea, and there was absolutely nothing he could do. The hope that burned in his chest that some day she would forgive him and come home was extinguished, and his fire for life along with it. The days without her blend together in a meaningless blur until one day, he decides he's had enough. He convinces his boss and his faithful probie that he needs to stop a terrorist. Really he knows that vengeance is his true plan. He tells himself that she deserves to be avenged, that the scum that took her away don't deserve to live. He never vocalizes that he believes himself to be among them.

So he flies himself halfway around the world to avenge the woman who has his heart in a vice. When the ropes cut into his skin and the dust coats his throat, he can only think in some twisted way that he deserves this. He let her be left behind. He drove her away. His heart bled not only for her loss, but for the guilt that clouded his every thought for forcing her hand.

And then, she is there. Sitting across from him. She's pale, bruised, dirty, and thinner than he would like, but she is there. Her eyes glassy and haunted with ghosts that he knows will never leave her. He stares in utter disbelief. She was dead. And every fiber of his being was ready to die for that. He'd lived for months trying to convince himself that life was still worth living without her in it, and all that time, she'd been stuck here, in this hellhole, waiting to be rescued.

She asks him why are you here and every instinct is telling him to lie, that there is no way the truth will get him anywhere with her now. That the hatred she felt so passionately only months ago must still be raging within. But whatever crap he was shot up with loosens his tongue and he spills out couldn't live without you. And every moment from then on is an experiment in self doubt and disbelief. She thinks she shouldn't be alive. He thinks neither of them could still possibly be. That perhaps she's a delusion of his drug addled mind. But he rattles off the escape plan that not even he is sure will work, and rambles on to the terrorist bastard he came to kill and saves them all.

After they were extracted, leaving their desert prison behind, he doesn't want to stop touching her. He holds her hand, gently stroking the back of it with his thumb, marveling at how small it was in his. It was all she could do not to recoil, but he needs this. If she were being honest with herself, she needs it too. Needs this gentle contact with the man that had risked everything for her when she'd given him nothing but grief. The air was heavy between them, laden with guilt and relief and confusion, and as always, words left unsaid. He squeezes her hand gently, making sure she's still with him. She turns to meet his eyes for the first time since their escape. Her eyes were filled with pain and guilt and a softness that he couldn't reconcile. He could feel her sadness, her fatigue, and terror she couldn't even try to hide. As if this were all a dream, and at any moment she would be ripped out of it, back to that place. Away from her family, and him, once again. He can't even be offended, because he thinks it too. Slowly, she lowers her head to his shoulder, giving in to her exhaustion, and his heart swells, with what he can't be sure. But he knows in that moment more than any other that she will be his undoing.

Moods that take me and erase me, and I'm painted black

They come close to real, once. Trapped in an elevator for hours on end, they promise honesty and truth, to tell each other all the things that matter. And for a while, they do just that. Whether it's movie nights on the couch, or the occasional drink, they open up to each other when they can, showing each other their soft, vulnerable underbellies in a way that they couldn't before. She reveals to him her closest friend, and he a bit of his shrouded past. And together, with soft touches and softer gazes, they try to be ready for more.

But then the entire world turns on it's head and everything they've done, all the happiness they've managed to find is marred by death. It hits her hard, harder than even he expected, and though she knows that there was nothing she could do to stop it, he can see the guilt slowly but surely eating away at her. She finds refuge in his home, his bed. And as much as he wishes he could accompany her there, the wall he spent so long breaking down has erected itself overnight, built to keep only him out. She rejects his attempts at affection, at help. If there is anyone who can break her, it would be him. And breaking down is not something she is interested in. They part with whispered assurances. At lo lehvad, I know. And it seems to be enough, for now. Their relationship, strangely fragile for all it's been through, will have to wait.

And he does. He waits until she comes home from her father's funeral, and tries to get her to open up. To be there for her, and to let her talk to him as they would before tragedy rocked her world. She does, to an extent. She insists she's fine. That there is nothing wrong and that she is dealing with her father's death the best she can. But he knows it's a lie. He could always see right through her. And through clandestine phone calls and meetings in crappy apartments, he learns of the betrayal he sincerely hoped wouldn't come. Then he's halfway around the world again, searching for the man who is the object of her misplaced rage and bloodlust. He can feel her worries, her doubts, from the moment she declares that Berlin is their destination. So he whispers words of comfort, holds her when she'll let him. She gives herself to him that night, working off some of the stress she's been building up for weeks. She takes him hard, quick. He knows he's being used. Even as he's inside her she's distracted. He tries not to take it personally. After they collapse, she kisses him softy, an apology.

They dance. Their connection stronger in that moment in his arms than it has been in months, despite the fact that she had bedded him not an hour before. As their eyes meet just for that moment, she is so grateful to have him, to have a man so wonderful to keep her close in spite of everything she has done. She feels the fire that constantly burns for him flare within her, and she wants nothing more than to disappear for a while and melt into him as she has so many times before.

But things rarely go as planned. The man they find is not the one they're after, and quickly they're thrown back to square one. Her silence is deafening. Her thoughts stray into what ifs and what could have been. All he wants is to wipe her tears whisper sweet nothings in her ear, and as he laces his fingers between hers, he thinks that perhaps for once, the universe is going to give them a break, and he will be able to do just that.

And then it all goes to hell. His car is wrecked, again, as is his opportunity to say the words he's held in his heart for far too long. They check themselves out of the hospital, and from that point on, there is nothing he can do but watch her unravel. The weight of guilt and revenge crush her, taking her reason with them. She kills the man who killed her father, whether she meant to or not. The conflict wars within her, and even as he offers his hand, his help, she staunchly refuses. And then there's an investigation. And a man whose name he'd really rather forget, and the betrayal that he'd been feeling for weeks stung anew. He can't even look at her after that. She throws his words in his face, and it takes everything he has to speak to her without yelling at the top of his lungs. But he doesn't need to. She knows what she's done. The end of the week comes, and their badges have to go. They resign, say goodbye, and she is gone again.

You have suffered enough and warred with yourself

She tells him that she's taking a vacation, traveling. It seems perfectly reasonable an idea. She skypes him when she can, keeps in touch. She sends him pictures of her on the beach, at the market, wherever something strikes her that makes her think of him. It makes him smile more than it should. They push past the awkwardness and distrust that had settled over their partnership in months past, happy to have an opportunity to exist solely as themselves. No crimes to be solved or coworkers to be dodged. They just enjoy each other's company, even if they are thousands of miles apart.

She asks him to join her. And with a smiley face to boot. His heart leaps into his throat, the beats erratic, because for once, things are going to plan. For once, it seems as though they are on the same page. In the same chapter at the very least. He books a trip to Tel Aviv, makes plans to leave his fish with the neighbor's daughter, all with a hopeful smile on his face.

Then there are bullets. They shatter his windows, his picture frames and his hopes. The team reassembles, looking for the newest evil trying to do them harm. The bastards go after her, just as they always do, thinking that she's the most vulnerable, weak. And just like always, they are horribly wrong. She drops off the radar. They find nothing of her but her necklace and a trail of dead bodies leading nowhere. He receives nothing but a message with a childhood photo and all he can do is stare in confusion, disappointment and frustration.

It always surprises him how quickly things fall apart.

She runs. Just as she always does when life seems like it's about to come crashing down around her ears. She runs from her family, the man she knows in her heart she loves, her entire life. She runs to Israel, Egypt, Oman, Yemen and back again. There are few things that become clear, though not those she expects. The things she thinks she might find just blur past in the wake of her guilt. Like a wound blossoming in her chest it grows, bleeding into her soul. She cannot run. She cannot hide. Because this is bigger than her. Bigger than the life she thought she had built. This was her past coming back to haunt her. The knowledge of what she has done in life eats away at her consciousness until it rules her every thought. She visits the graves of her family, her father, mother, her sweet sweet sister who would certainly tell her to stop this nonsense, to dance to forget as she used to, to quiet her mind. But there are some things that cannot be forgotten. She cannot deny the voice of her friend that echoes in her mind. The one that tells her that she is responsible for all the pain she feels. That there would be no retribution had she not acted in the first place. That her sins really are too great. They may have been the sins of her father, thrust upon her far too young, wrought out of pain and vengeance, but she knows that regardless of circumstance that she chose to act as she did. That there is no one left to blame. So she runs to the house she was born in, and she hides.

He finds her there, not long after she arrives. She knew he was following her. How could she not? Eventually she thought he might give up, but even as she convinced herself he would be better off without her she knew she was kidding herself. The vision of this man, tanned from the desert heat, was one all too familiar, and as she shakes her head in frustration she should have known he would find her. He always does. She tries to deny him, tell him that he should not have come, but he was always persistent. He has little sympathy for people who try to spare his feelings.

She is lost, in more ways than one. The security she one felt in herself, in her life, her sense of purpose, is gone. And no matter how he tries to convince her, he's not sure that he can help her get it back. They make a list of all the things she wants to do after she completes this self imposed penance. He guides her through gently, offering tea and a comfortable place to rest her head. He tries to help her see that the woman she has become and the woman she wants to be are in fact very nearly the same. She shrugs him off, thinking that it cannot possibly be. That the woman that has committed such atrocities can have any semblance or a happy ending. But he asks her to dream. Other than letting go of the job, of finding a new sense of purpose, what does she want? They decide very quietly over candlelight half a dozen items to add to her list, and they do not speak of it again.

They bury her dreams in a box in the orange grove, someplace safe where no one will ever take them from her again. With a gentle caress and the sincerest of words, he vows to change with her if she can just come home. Her heart breaks with his words, knowing without a doubt they will be true. But she denies him this request. He tells her he is fighting for her. And she knows, god, she knows with all her heart. He has never done anything but. She cannot leave with him, she declares, until she is worthy of him. Worthy of the life they can create together. With the gentlest of caresses he brings his lips to hers, finally finding solace in her.

It is then that they come together again. There is something poetic, he thinks, about the way that they always manage to come back to one another. At least it would be if they weren't ripped apart just as often. They are more than aware that their time together is finite, but they see no need to rush. They indulge in each other in ways they never had in their previous time together. They make love, slow, careful, intense. utterances of I love you are scattered throughout their encounters, knowing that they have deprived themselves of so much time by denying the words. He touches her firmly but carefully, wanting to learn every new curve he hasn't had the chance to study in their time apart. She allows herself to let him take the lead, to feel his weight above her, to be suffocated by it. She surrounds herself with him in the very best way, and gives him everything she has.

They spend the next week this way, in near constant contact.

As she lays on his chest in post-coital bliss, there is part of him that wishes he'd never known her this way, that he had resisted temptation and let her alone, because he doubts that he would ever experience this level of ecstasy with anyone but her. The other is glad, because she could bring him to heights he'd never thought he could reach.

He knows she's going to make him leave her behind. As she describes for him her distress, her doubts, her complete lack of sense of self, he knows he doesn't stand a chance. He knows this person, this self deprecating, beaten down, guilt ridden woman wasn't her. But she doesn't. No amount of convincing would work until she discovered it for herself. So he does what he can. He holds her tight in his arms, memorizing everything about her he doesn't want to forget.

There are tears in their eyes when they make love for the last time.

She forces him to leave her on the tarmac, the hardest thing he's done in his life. To stand there, watching her fall apart again, and know he was the cause. She reaffirms loving words murmured, gasped and whispered into their skin during their time together, and he kisses her with all he has. Their lips meet easily and he cannot help but think of all the time they'd wasted keeping themselves from one another, and what they could have had. He looks into her eyes brimming with tears, her hair freshly mussed and her lips extra pink from their kiss and his heart bleeds knowing that he could bandage all her wounds if she'd let him. He lets her go, hand falling from her body with a final caress. He hopes that she will call out to him, tell him not to go. To say that she'd made a mistake, that she wanted him to stay or that she would come home. But his hopes are in vain. He watches her trembling form fade from view through the window, and his heart breaks all over again.

Later he finds her necklace in his pocket, the gleam of the warm gold lancing hope through his heart.

It's time you won

She stays true to her word, and searches for herself far and wide. She closes up her father's homes, searching through the abundance of wealth that is technically hers. Though she has little interest in the material possessions her father seemingly held dear, she feels it is her duty to truly put him to rest. As the dust kicks up from the basement of her father's home, she finds things she would have never expected. Her old toys. Her books. Things her father had taken from her long ago to discipline her, to strip of her grandiose delusions about what her life could be. She finds her first pair of ballet slippers, tiny, worn, the pink satin sadly faded to almost white. She finds the worn out teddy bear with one eye that her father had said he'd thrown away years before. There are pictures, hundreds of them, of herself, her siblings. Of her with her friends at the beach and in the backyard. Buried at the very bottom she finds a journal filled with entries and sketches, some well loved and detailed, some haphazard and unfinished. She allows herself time to mourn the loss of the child she was, the person she'd wanted to be. Though she has little of that girl left, what she still possesses is boxed up for the time being, kept in a safe place. She is this girl, somewhere inside. She has proof.

She volunteers her time at a women's shelter, counseling women whose struggles were far too close to home. She sees her own struggles in the faces of these women, the pain and the loss that they shared. They are broken, all of them together. But these women have been abandoned by all those they held dear, some broken by the same men that were supposed to protect and honor them. She sheds tears for those women as thinks of the man with the teasing words and gentle hands who had helped her to heal. She has never been more grateful for him.

She moves on to an orphanage, helping entertain the children. She reads to them, teaches them games from her childhood, draws pictures of the orphanage and the beach and families they wished they had. They ask her to draw her family one day, and the pain that she'd managed to suppress rages anew. She draws them all, her NCIS family. The children ask for stories about her life in the states, stories that she has not told in months. The tales are carefully edited to be suitable for little ears, but the emotion behind them remains. The frog in her throat sticks with her the entire day. There is no way to rid herself of the lump in her throat, the butterflies in her stomach, the ache in her heart. The thought plagues her that she may have made a mistake separating herself from them. But then a child, no older than three, climbs into her lap and rests her tiny head on her shoulder, and she knows that she left for a reason.

She reasons that this, her penance, can be so much more than what she has made it. She must figure out what she can give to the world other than destruction and death. She must atone for the chaos that she has wrought upon her life and the lives of all those around her. She can become someone who does not just volunteer at shelters and orphanages, but an advocate for those who cannot do it for themselves. She cradles the child to her chest, allowing her calm to wash over the toddler, and she knows that though these tasks she has set herself upon are important, she could live a fuller life.

She sends him a letter that night. Her words are not too revealing, her heart still to scarred to share her new world even with him, but the contact makes the anxiety constricting her heart release the tiniest bit. It is enough.

His world stops. His best friend is gone, the only remnants of her stored in a box in his desk, another in his home, buried deep in one of his dresser drawers, the pictures and mementos of her calling to him to be seen, to be touched. He ignores the urge to give in to their siren call; nothing short of wrapping her in his arms could possibly satisfy him. He misses unexpected things about her, not just the big ones. Her presence in his life is imprinted on everything that he finds important in his life, everything that he has grown to depend on since she entered his life eight years before. No memory of her brings him joy, only anguish.

He joins a men's support group at the urging of his therapist. The first few weeks he sits in the back and watches, listening to men who have suffered losses greater than his pour their hearts out to one another. When he finally speaks, The man next to him grips his shoulder in sympathy, because a loss is a loss, and the empty space in their hearts and lives must be mourned regardless of circumstance. He tells no one of these meetings, his heart still heavy enough to warrant their worry, and he cannot burden them further.

Slowly he begins to live his life. He throws himself into his work, training his new probie, and taking on one evil after the next. He works himself into a frenzy, the late nights at the office reminding him of the many nights they used to share. They were nothing compared to the memories of her warm and lithe in his bed. He goes to the gym more, running his frustration away. His suits start to fit a little looser, his stamina grows. He actually starts to feel good about his physique for the first time in a very long time. He tests his new physique out on a select few, well versed in the art of wooing a beautiful woman. Though he finds success, and a release he had denied himself for quite some time, his heart wasn't in it. He knew that he could not commit to these women any more than he could commit to them in his twenties, or thirties. His mind was strewn with guilt for abandoning the object of his affection. As he was so reminded, she was the one who abandoned him, but still he could not bring himself to fault her for her decision, and thus forgave himself for his indiscretions.

But there comes a point that he cannot wait anymore. Her absence creates a void in his life that is noticeably unfillable. Some grow concerned, some urge him to move on, and though his heart is crying out for some kind of companionship, it it screaming for the woman whom he left in the desert yet again. He cannot quell his thoughts of her, nor the persistent ache he feels when his gaze is left to linger where she once dwelled.

He starts seeing someone else. A woman from his past that knows him inside and out. But the person she knew is not the person he has come to be. She wants to learn, to see the change in the man that left her so many years ago. So she sticks around and he lets her, because it's easy and painless and because for once the woman who owned his heart for so many years is not on the forefront of his mind.

He begins to think that perhaps, second best will have to be good enough.

Take this sinking boat and point it home, we've still got time

The first letter arrives on his desk on a Tuesday. White, crisp, with the gentle scrawl of her handwriting across the front. His heart drops to his stomach as he rubs the envelope between his fingers. The curious looks he gets from his teammates, who are nosy enough without his help, are enough to force him to drop it without further investigation. It ends up in the middle drawer of his desk, atop a pile of old paperwork. Gibbs sweeps in, declaring that they've got a dead marine, and the note is forgotten, left to sit and wait.

It isn't until the following week that he actually opens the letter. He finds it in the early morning hours, his coworkers sleeping at their respective desks as he finishes a search that will come up empty. He opens the drawer to find the letter sitting innocently on the top of the pile, just as crisp and white as he left it. He opens it carefully, not wanting to damage the contents. All the envelope contains is a short note written on purple stationary. There is little detail about what she is doing or why she chose to contact him at all, but knowing she is safe is enough. Safe and happy. He folds the note into quarters and slips it into a hidden pocket in his wallet. A reminder with him always.

The next note arrives a week later, no longer than the first. A quick update on her life, what she is thinking about. They continue to come week after week. To his knowledge, he is the only member of the team getting anything from her. He hides the letters as they come. He clears his middle drawer, and that is where they reside. Four letters after the first, there is a picture included. She is sitting in a circle of women, some veiled, some as open as she, but every one he can see is smiling. The next is shorter than most, but at the very end something new- her address. He sends her a letter that night.

Their exchanges come as frequently as they can, international mail restricting them to a letter per week if they were lucky. Soon she decides it's time to change the routine, and jots down her new email at the bottom of her letter. She gets his response the same day he gets the letter, and for the first time in months, she feels as though they are truly reconnecting again. Their emails do not delve into any major details about their lives, they do not speak of sentimentalities. The process of catching up after a year of silence is lengthy and they do not dare delve into the expansive depths of their emotions.

Soon, he exposes her to the wonder of What's app and the text messaging starts. They begin to get back to who they used to be before their lengthy separation, sending each other messages whenever they think of it. Jokes from the bullpen, pictures of her child charges, one liners from movies he knows she loves, on occasion she'll send back the line that follows. The rhythm is easy. Their banter is nearly the same as always, the same teasing but honest words they'd gown so accustomed to flowing between them like nothing has changed. But is has. She is still across the world, and he is still sitting at his desk. Their contact is still limited. And their longing for more only grows with each passing day.

The first time they Skype it is a Friday. She fidgets in her chair, as she watches the call ring on her screen. He pops up in his kitchen half a world away, and she gasps. He is as beautiful as she remembered. She longs to touch him, to smooth the wrinkles that have formed around his eyes since she saw him last. She wants to sit with him, to breathe in his comforting scent, to tease his fingers with hers. For a time they merely stare at one another, taking in the many things that have changed. He is thinner, older. His hairline has receded the tiniest bit. She is tanner, thinner, with her hair chopped to her shoulders. It suits her. Their session begins and ends with sentiment and no formality. Murmurings of how much they missed one another, how much everything has changed. And yet nothing has changed. Because as soon as he saw her face, her smile, he could feel his heart pound and hear his blood rushing through his veins. He feels truly alive for the first time in months and he wants nothing more for it to continue for the rest of his days. That night, long after his laptop has gone dark, he feels a familiar fluttering in his chest. Hope.

They Skype as often as their schedules allow, and sometimes even when they don't. Some days he sees her frazzled and barely home from work, others she is lounging on the balcony of her apartment. Some days he sneaks in a quick hello when the boss goes on a coffee run, others they watch an entire movie an ocean apart. One day he startles as he is greeted by the dirt-smudged face of a toddler rather than the woman he expects. He lets out a barking laugh as the tiny face prods the screen, her wild curls reminiscent of those worn by the woman gently pulling her and her sticky fingers away from the screen. She chides the child in hebrew, but as soon as she can pull her youngest charge away, ten more show up, climbing all over the couch, asking them questions in rapid fire hebrew. He can only laugh as more and more dirty faces come onto the screen, their curiosity humorous and refreshing. He watches them give her kisses on her cheeks, her smile broad and bright. He cannot help but think that perhaps she is where she belongs. He presses on, never allowing his smile to fade, even as his heart cries out against it.

They keep in daily contact, the constant pull to be in communication urging them to speak, to see, to write. They indulge themselves in it as much as they can. They grow close despite the distance, and the more she sees of him, the more she wants to see him. She can only hope that he feels the same. She know she has a girlfriend. She walked in on them talking one day and she shut down despite herself. She had assumed that he had taken other lovers, though she had not. And yet seeing it come to pass was somehow different. She enforced a radio silence for some time after the encounter, contemplating whether or not she should remain where she was or go home to him. Whether it is worth the risk to drop everything she has built for herself in order to move forward. To risk her heart yet again.

She looks down to the array of acceptance letters in her lap. Of all the schools that she had applied to, one stuck out, like a beacon in the dark. Georgetown. She's going home.

Raise your hopeful voice, you have a choice

She comes back to him. It is the beginning of spring when she shows up, trembling slightly from the cold. She doesn't tell him she's coming. She wants it to be a surprise. Though she has her doubts about what she will come home to, she cannot keep herself away any longer. She picks herself up, packs what she can, and flies to DC. One way. There's no going back now.

She waits patiently in the silver box taking her to greet the familiar orange walls of the bullpen. Though the building is likely abandoned for the night, she knows her partner well enough to know he does his best work at night. She smiles at the slight innuendo she created and mentally fills in his joking boastful reply.

As soon as she steps of the elevator she sees him sitting at his desk, engrossed in his work, his face fixed into a concentrated frown. She takes a steadying breath before approaching the space she called home for eight years, and the man she found a home with too. He hears her footsteps approaching and he looks up. His eyes immediately open wide and he leaps up from his chair in disbelief, enveloping her in a crushing hug the moment she is within reach. She presses herself into him, her head fitting perfectly beneath his chin. She breathes him in deeply, the warmth of his body a comfort she did not have the luxury of indulging in for far too long. They stand wrapped in each other in the middle of the bullpen for a few precious moments, taking in the feel of each other. He relishes in the scent of her hair, the softness of her curves under his hands, the way she fits perfectly with him as she always did. Their moment is cut short when his boss, her surrogate father, whips back into the building, stopping dead in his tracks at the sight of her.

She steps out of the safety of their loving embrace, and stands before the storm bare, anxious. Relief crosses his face as he steps forward, taking her into his arms and pressing a kiss to her temple. She closes her eyes in bliss as the anxiety flows from her body, out and away. She has been embraced by the two men that mean the most in her life. Before she can blink she is swept up by the third. He is thinner than she remembered, and his hug is the tightest of them all.

There is a terrorist on the loose, no different than any other day. But she is informed that this madman is after her, because of all the sins she was trying to wash away during their time apart. He can see the news crush her, the weight of the burdens she'd shed piling themselves back onto her shoulders with every word. She is assigned to stay with him that night, against weak protests from them both. It is both a joy and an unfair temptation all rolled into one; the tension they so often felt, the constant pull towards one another only strengthened since they experienced one another's touch again.

He is the gentleman as always. He will not allow her to sleep on the couch, forcing her to sleep in his bed without him. Her heart pounds as she notices that the bed is no longer a twin, but a queen. She forces herself to not think of the implications of this action as she stares at the crisp bedding. Had he entertained lovers in this bed? Had he bought it as a sign of commitment to his lover? She does not dare ask as he kisses her forehead goodnight, the sensation of his lips left long after he shuts the door behind him. She lay in the cool sheets, the vast emptiness surrounding her. She aches for him to be here with her. To slide in behind her and meld their bodies together, his breath soft on her neck as he places kisses at her nape. But she knows this cannot come to be. She knows that he is no longer hers, and that she would be crossing every line should she decide to entice him into his bed with her.

They are in close quarters for several days until his other woman shows up unexpectedly. They sit on his couch nearly shoulder to shoulder, her legs curled up in front of her, encroaching on his lap. All the space between them is erased as their personal boundaries have always been. A classic movie plays on the screen as she sips tea and he munches on warm cookies. They are picturesque, a black and white photo of domestic bliss. She is quickly reminded that they do not belong to one another as the other woman spits fire over their arrangement. He tries to explain it away, that there is nothing between them, that she is merely his charge. She tries to hide the hurt that grows with every word, and he cringes as he spills more and more lies.

She ends up in a basement sanding a boat that night.

She settles back into the routine of the life she so purposefully left behind, the world goes to hell right on schedule a few days later. She has been with her family for barely a week when the force of reality thrashes her like a wave. Her family is being attacked, the man that took her under his wing with little more than a light headslap and a forehead kiss is the target, as he always is. He tells her that she isn't safe with him, isn't even safe with her partner, because for some reason those who put a bounty on his head strike through the women he holds dearest in life. She stays with him anyway, even as her partner insists that he will be staying too. She smiles. She is safe with him. She is always safe with him.

They are barely settled when the boss is called back away. With a grunt and a nod he takes his leave to go back to work, back to the hunt for another madman. She toes off her shoes in the doorway, casually making her way to the kitchen to make dinner. Her partner's stomach rumbles at the thought as he remembers what a treat her cooking is, much to her delight. She smirks at him, teasing him about his appetite. He catches himself before he makes a lewd comment about a very different appetite and pauses to marvel at just how different they are now, how they hide from each other in ways that they had not before.

Shattering glass, the metallic crack of a canister rolling on the floor, stark silence. And then the bang.

Her ears are ringing as his body crushes hers, protecting her from the blast. The flash blinded them both, and as the door flings from its hinges with a splintering crack, he pushes himself off of her, feeling more than looking for his gun. He orders her to back away as their enemy advances, strong and sure in his convictions. The next few moments are a barrage of grunts, cries of pain, and the sound of sickening cracks each time either man lands a blow. She fumbles in the pantry for the gun she knows is inside. The cacophony of noise as the living room shatters around them, dust heavy in the air. Her hand closes on metal and she is filled with a terror she expected and an exhilaration she did not. With one final sickening thud she knows someone has fallen, their weight shaking the floor with their collapse. She remains hidden as she peeks around the wall. Her partner is on the ground, and above him, a man with his gun.

He will not make it. There is too little time, too little space. The man terrorizing their lives stands over him, in an eerily familiar form from years before. The man sweats, panting in exhaustion as he prepares for his fatal blow. Her partner is trapped below him, nearly incapacitated, fighting unconsciousness. The man, though she can hardly call him a man, calls to her. Advising her to come out, to surrender to him before she forces his hand to do something he does not want to do. When she does not emerge she hears him sigh before he launches into a rousing speech, berating her for being created with the seed of her father, for associating herself with the man that killed their brother. Explaining to her that she must die, that he must learn his lesson. Eye for an eye, a phrase she knows too well. His need for justice is misguided, she knows far too well. His lust cultivated over years of blood, sweat and fire. And though her heart is heavy with guilt knowing that she had a hand in his suffering, they are not family, and he is not a good man. He details the joy he will find in watching the light fade from her partner's eyes, in watching the pain of his death momentarily tear her to shreds before taking her life as well.

Her boss, playing the savior as always, bursts through the door with a resounding slam, distracting their attacker, but not before a shot rings out. There is no cry of surprise or grunt of pain, her partner is unconscious on the floor. She reacts before the first drop of blood can hit the carpet.

She takes the shot.

You've made it now

Calloused hands pry the gun from her trembling fingers as tears begin to spill down her cheeks. She snaps to her senses with a start as she feels the rough thumb graze the inside of her wrist. She runs to him, crashing to her knees beside him, taking in the gash on his forehead, the purpling bruise on his cheek, the hole in his shoulder. She presses her hands down roughly, hoping to stem the flow of sticky red leaking out of his wound.

There is blood on her hands. It seeps through her fingers, disturbing her more than it ever had before. She turns her head around to glance at the terrorist who lay only feet away. She cannot stop staring as the blood pools around her victim's corpse, congealing in the dust on the ground. It nearly makes her sick. There are no prayers to be said for this man, no sympathy for his death, for his actions preceding his death were not worthy of such solace or sorrow.

She knows she is a murderer, as she has always been. Since the moment her father gave her a gun, preaching about her duty to him and to country, she had sought to win the challenge set before her; to do anything to make her father proud. She is not sure in this moment whether that pride he bestowed upon her was upheld or tarnished. She has taken the life of yet another man, a sin that she has tried for months to wash herself of. Another man brought to his knees by the death of her brother, by her reckless banditry of his soul. Another person that has come after her family, and thankfully lost, though not without casualties on either side. The twisted mind of yet another man scorned by her murderous actions stewed in his grief and rage until he wrought destruction upon all those responsible. Except for her. She is the center of the destruction, the factor that is constantly causing this conflict she desperately wished would stay in the past to reach critical mass. And there was nothing she could do about it. She cannot bring herself to feel guilty for killing the man currently laying on the living room floor. Even as they gently coax her hands away and lift her partner into an ambulance on a stretcher, he is very much alive. And that is everything.

They will not allow her to ride in the ambulance with him, not in her condition. The shock has set in, and they cannot risk an incident on the way to the hospital. She will not remember the rough hands of her surrogate father pulling her to him as he attempts to soothe the tears she she forgot she was shedding. Nor will she recall how he scrubs the evidence of her encounter from her hands and gently helps her change her bloodied clothes, to back down from the precipice of the rabbit hole of guilt she was dangerously close to collapsing into. She will, however, remember the way he holds her hand as they drive to the hospital in welcome silence.

She learns that she is still one of his emergency contacts when she arrives at the hospital. Whether this is an oversight and he forgot to change his form or a deliberate attempt to disregard her absence she isn't sure, but she is grateful. They give her updates about his surgery, about all the stitches they're going to have to place, the bullet they'll have to dig into his shoulder to remove. The comforting hand on her back is the only thing grounding her to this moment, the only thing keeping her from getting sick at the thought of her partner being sliced and stitched because of her. She paces restlessly, looking for a task, anything to keep her mind off him.

She calls his other woman. She is as polite as she can possibly be to the woman who shares her affections for their special agent. She tells her that she's tied up in a case and can't get away. With a hurried goodbye the phone goes silent against her ear and her heart sinks for her partner. She knows that there is nothing better than waking up to someone you care about. She also understands the plight of the woman who so quickly ushered her off the phone. She is an agent, and sometimes as an agent you must sacrifice to do your job. But knowing that fact does not make the rock in her stomach go away. It does not assure her that this woman is taking care of her partner as he deserves to be cared for, nor does it quell the nagging feeling that she should have given him all of her long ago.

She stares at him in his hospital bed, broken, bruised, looking much smaller than his stature would suggest. She feels a warm presence behind her who wordlessly hands her a cup of tea, urging her to relax. He'll be fine, the voice whispers roughly in her ear. She shakes her head, sitting heavily in a chair beside the bed and taking his hand, stroking his bruised knuckles with her thumb. She can't stop staring at him, the guilt washing over her in waves. She knows he would not want her to blame herself for this, but she cannot help but think if only she had been quicker, if only she hadn't left, if only she'd never come to DC in the first place. She contemplates running. She is no better for him now than she ever was, and clearly his life has moved on in her absence. But the thought of leaving him in such a state, leaving him at all makes her heart ache. She sits forward in her chair, kissing his knuckles and thinking about how different her life is with him in it.

The memories flood her in a barrage of relentless emotion. Their first undercover assignment as partners. The first time he made it clear he would die for her. The first time they made love. Their banter, their teasing, his easy way of making her heart flutter. Their late nights together in the bullpen, late nights curled together on her couch, seeking connection. Comforting one another over the loss of their friend, and the devastating blow knowing she may never see him again. The smile on his face when they were reunited. Seeing one former lover bleeding on the ground, the other sprawled out trying to do right by her as he always has. Seeing his face in the desert, hearing his unwilling confession of love. The way he helped her through her recovery, giving her the space she needed to reclaim her life. His heartfelt words when she found someone else, at least for a little while. The pain she felt when she thought they didn't have another chance. Whispers of telling each other the important things, the ease they found when they actually did. Pain when her family was ripped away from her, even more when she almost lost him to her bloodlust. The tears that mingled on their cheeks as they made love for the last time. The scent of him in the sheets when she forced him to leave. And now, reunited, the sting of knowing that all the opportunities she had to make him hers, she passed up because of the fear that she would hurt him, or he would hurt her. And yet there has been no one in her life that has loved her like he does. There is no one who has given her so much and taken so little.

She brushes the tears from her cheeks, sniffling. She mentally berates herself for being so emotional. She does not want to be a mess when he wakes. She stands to check on him, and finds his green eyes staring back at her. She sighs in relief. She calls his nurse promptly, and is ushered from the room as they do all their required tests. The waiting is excruciating, but knowing he is alive and awake is relief enough to keep her calm. The nurse gives her a sympathetic smile and she reenters, immediately seeking his hand. He smiles lazily, trying to be charming even in a scratchy hospital gown.

She reaches out slowly, brushing the bandage at his forehead with the tips of her fingers, gently trailing them down the side of his face. Tears well up in her eyes and she moves to turn away when he catches her. His hand cups her face, his fingers just playing with the edge of her hair before burrowing into her curly locks. They connect, their eyes boring into one another, his slightly clouded from the drugs she know he tried to refuse, hers brimming with tears. She reaches up to cover his hand with hers, her hand grasping his wrist where it rest on her face. She resists the urge to kiss him then, the pull to connect their lips stronger than it has been in days. But he is injured because of her, his cheekbone broken and reset, and then there is the matter of his other woman. She knows she shouldn't. A not-quite dainty female cough forces her to turn, his hand dropping to the bed. It turns out his agent could get away from her desk after all. She makes an excuse to leave quickly as the other woman enters the room. She runs directly into her boss, former boss he would gently correct her. He takes one look at her and whisks her away from the lovers within.

The breakup is much quicker and cleaner than he thought it would be.

He tells her as soon as she gets back to his room. The knowledge that they have broken up springs a well of hope in her heart she knows should not be gushing quite so soon. And yet the sleepy smile on his face is reassurance enough that her caution is not warranted. His eyes slip closed, and she assures him that she will be there when he wakes up.

She keeps her promise and then some. He is released from the hospital two days later, and she stays with him as he heals. He is put on mandatory leave until his shoulder is functioning at a tolerable level, and thus he has more time on his hands than he ever wanted. She cooks him meals as he groans about eating so many green vegetables, and she makes him cookies to make it up to him, the chocolate chips mysteriously going missing as she cooks. They watch movies old and new. He attempts to catch her up on all the pop culture he is sure she missed, and falls back on old favorites in between. There is a sense of peace that befalls her as she watches his childlike glee as he interjects his favorite movie facts. Even through their time apart, and through their trials and tribulations, he is still very much the same man she started to fall in love with years before. He has a few more gray hairs speckling his temples, and no doubt he has changed some and matured with time, but the man who teased her, who leered at her across the bullpen and charmed her under the eaves of a hotel in the rain is still very much intact. Their partnership, forged in fire, has only grown stronger against the test of time. And for the first time, she looks at him and can see who she wants to be. Not for him, but with him at her side.

He feels her watching him, but he waits. He could speak, break her concentration, but as always, he is ultimately too curious about what thoughts are rushing around that brain of hers. So he waits patiently, not bothering to watch the black and white tale develop on screen, but watch her instead. As he sees the clouds drift from her eyes and focus on him, he smiles. She does not smile back. For a split second, panic sets in, but it all melts away as he sees her eyes drift to his lips. She leans in slowly, careful of his injuries, and kisses him sweetly. The gentle meeting of lips is not forceful or passionate, but it is not without expectation. She flicks his bottom lip with her tongue, and he knows she is holding back until he can enjoy her as they both wish he could. The promise for more, a future, is all he can ask for.

They spend the rest of their day cuddled as well as they can be on the couch with gentle caresses, chaste kisses and multiple teasing tickling incidents. She feels like an idiot as she looks at him, grinning broadly, but she knows for certain there is no place she would rather be.

And as she drifts off to sleep that night with her head on his chest, she knows this is it. She is home. Forever.

Falling slowly, sing your melody. I'll sing along