Ziva opened her eyes and sighed. The quality of the light in the bedroom told her it was already past seven, at the very least. She was getting far too accustomed to waking up late. It was a Saturday, but still; she could be out running.
As she shifted under the covers, she was reminded just how long it would be before she was going to be able to get back to her customary workouts. She made a series of small movements to see how her injured quadriceps felt this morning and found there was no appreciable difference from the previous night. "The bastard just had to twist the knife, didn't he?" she muttered to herself, concentrating on not wincing as she propped her body into a sitting position. The healing scar on her stomach throbbed momentarily, but it was hardly noticeable compared to the pain in her leg. It didn't take much effort to hide the pain; if she could do it while walking with minimal aid from a cane, she could do it sitting in bed.
The snores coming from her right abruptly ceased. "Mmm bah…in the hot tub…ah zuuuh…forgot my suit…"
She reached over and twirled a lock of Tony's short hair around her finger. He immediately stopped murmuring in his sleep and went back to snoring. She softly asked, "You awake?"
He gave a protracted snore and uttered a series of nonsense syllables before clearly saying, "Mmm…waffles."
"Big faker." She leaned toward him, expecting him to move at any moment. She held her breath as she swung her injured leg over as she rolled. The fact that she'd been in more pain was no comfort for the sharp pangs that resulted from the simple movement. The shift from dull ache to acute pain and back again had been worth it, however; she was now pressed along his side, enjoying the simple contact. He had yet to respond.
In a way she was glad he hadn't woken. Every time she got too physical, she felt like she was unfairly teasing him. She had no qualms about gratifying him but though he willingly accepted any time she offered, she could also tell that it wasn't enough. He wanted the one thing she couldn't give him at the moment. It was the very thing that frustrated her most; she wanted sex too. She wanted it bad. She couldn't think of any point in her life when she'd been more desperate for an intense night of sweaty, loud, sheet-tearing, bruise-and-welt-leaving sex. Unfortunately, no matter what her desire was dictating, her body could not comply. It knew what her libido chose to ignore – one wrong movement, one ounce of pressure in the wrong place and she would let out a scream for all the wrong reasons.
She nuzzled Tony's shoulder, secretly enjoying his scent. It wasn't anything particularly compelling, just him. If he were awake, she'd probably be telling him he needed a shower; that was her usual excuse when he caught her smelling him. She wasn't about to admit she liked the way he smelled in general. It would just lead to some awkward offers to sniff his armpits after a workout or misunderstandings that her enjoyment extended to any aromas he might generate. Ziva laughed softly, remembering that she was going to have to gradually ease him into eating more vegetables.
He sighed, attempting to move the arm that was now trapped under her body. Rather than trying to wake him, she waited until he settled back into a deep sleep again before carefully moving away from him. Using the cane leaning against her nightstand, she hooked a pair of loose jogging pants on the floor and pulled them toward her.
When she stood, she nearly tripped over the manuscript she'd confiscated from Tony the previous night. She leaned over with some effort and picked it up, placing it on her nightstand. As she attended to her morning rituals over the sink, she though of various excuses she could use to avoid giving it back to McGee. We got a dog, and the dog ate it, so we gave the dog away. We sold it on eBay. We loved it so much we refuse to give it back. She stopped herself, spitting toothpaste into the sink, as she realized all the excused involved 'we.' Maybe the truth would work best – Tony filled it with notes about our personal life that I don't want being shared with the world. I shredded it. Go ahead and yell at me, McGee. She paused again. She'd have to make sure that he had more copies before taking that step.
She pushed the book out of her mind and, on her way out of the bathroom, stopped at Tony's dresser to grab one of his long-sleeved college t-shirts. Leaning her hip against the dresser, she pulled it on over her camisole and rolled up the sleeves before hobbling out of the bedroom. She made her way down the short hall, wanting the painkillers she'd taken a few minutes previously to kick in. The pills were all well and good, but there were times she missed the direct relief of the IV.
In the kitchen, she removed eggs, milk and butter from the refrigerator and went to work. Her attention to the mixing bowls on the countertop allowed her to focus on something other than her leg. She could barely feel it by the time she poured the batter into the preheated waffle iron.
Tony suddenly appeared around the corner. "Hey. What are you doing up?" He blinked and ran his hand through his untidy hair. "And how did you know I was dreaming about waffles?"
"Woman's intuition," she replied with a smirk. His look of confusion set aside her suspicions that he had merely been feigning sleep. She took a few hitching steps across the room to meet him. "What were you dreaming about besides waffles?"
Ignoring the question, he gave her a brief kiss. "Go sit down. I can manage the waffles."
"Tony…"
"Please? You already did the hard work. I just have to wait for the timer to beep and slap them on a plate."
She both appreciated and objected to his concern. "I can manage."
"I know. I just want to…you sit down and I'll take care of this stuff."
She took a few containers of sliced fruit from the refrigerator. "So, you had a sex dream again?"
"Uh…what?" His fingers trembled slightly as he accepted the strawberries from her. "I wasn't groping you in my sleep again, was I?"
"No, but you're helping me with breakfast."
"Yes, because I want you to sit down and get your weight off your leg."
"My doctor said I should use it. That's why I have a cane and not a wheelchair." She leaned against the counter, watching him as he used a fork to transfer the two thick waffles to plates. "I'm sorry."
"For what?"
"You feel so guilty that you dreamed about it that you're offering to help me cook."
"Why should I feel guilty?" He ignored her reach, carrying both plates in one hand to the coffee table in front of the couch. "It's not like you don't know how much I like sex."
She sat on the sofa, formulating a response. She waited until he'd made enough trips to bring the fruit, toppings and two cups of coffee to the living room and sunk onto the couch beside her. "I was trying to say I don't want you to feel guilty. It's not your fault we can't. It's mine."
"Ziva…"
"Let's just eat before it gets cold."
"Fair enough." He covered the fruit on his waffle with generous portions of syrup and whipped cream. He made a sound of contentment as he took his first bite. "Mmm. Oh, you are good."
"I know it's been a while, but please don't start equating food and sex."
"I'm gonna have to ask you not to eavesdrop on my private conversations with my waffle."
They looked at each other in silence for a moment. She was the first to crack. After a good thirty seconds of air-clearing laughter, the tension had evaporated and they returned to their usual level of comfort with each other. She didn't even object when he turned on the TV to check the scores on SportsCenter.
When an ad came on, he asked, "Just curious, but how are we affording this new car of yours?"
She took advantage of her full mouth to hide her surprise. She'd been so occupied by other concerns that she'd forgotten about their plans for the day. After carefully chewing and swallowing, she said, "Moussad wrecked my old car, so they're paying for my new one."
"Uh-huh, and that's all well and good, but I can't see how the cost of your Mini equates with a brand new car of higher value. I mean, it was two years old and battle scarred." He took a sip of coffee. "How many accidents were you in with that thing?"
She tapped her fork against her plate, thinking. "Does it still count as an accident if no police report was filed?"
"Right. So many accidents you can remember them all."
"I didn't say that."
"I'm just saying that it was probably pretty, uh, depreciated. And you're looking at cars that cost more than it did new. I just want to know how that works before we start signing anything."
"Do you want the long answer about how Moussad is funding several ops with money I brought in from the Molot?"
His fork, heavy with a loaded bit of waffle, hung just in front of his mouth. "They get to do that?"
"Why wouldn't they?"
"Uhh…" He opened his mouth wide to insert the oversize bite, but spoke around it, "Fo if at evil?"
"Is it legal?" she asked, guessing at the closest translation of his words.
He nodded, chewing in an exaggerated way.
"What, you think the US Government doesn't take advantage of funds seized from criminals? They sell cars and boats and houses seized in drug raids at auction. There's no reason to just put all that stuff in a warehouse."
"So…any chance we could just have that Lamborghini you had in Paris? That blue one?"
"No. Anyway, I bled all over the seat in that one when I changed my bandage." She rubbed the scar on her left arm where a bullet had grazed her just before she and Dmitri had escaped to Siberia during her undercover mission. "Any car that Dmitri bought would have too many bad associations. Wouldn't you rather have something brand new?"
"When you put it that way…a new Lamborghini?"
"I promised my father I'd spend less than $40,000. I've already narrowed it down to two."
"I know." He finished his waffle and placed the plate on the table, looking longingly at her half-finished breakfast. She handed it over without a word and he eagerly added syrup and whipped cream. Pushing his advantage, he said, "I still think we should look at the new Mustangs."
She rolled her eyes. "We've been over this. I'm looking at the 350Z and the Eclipse. That's it."
"But the Mustang is nice! Fast, handles well, cheaper than both of those, even though that kind of doesn't matter because it's not our money…" She ignored the rest of his repetitive speech, reflecting on the fact that everything but his car had become 'ours' lately. She smiled, which seemed to indicate to him that he was swaying her. He ended with a flourish, saying, "And it has that big back seat!"
"What difference does it make?" she asked, slightly confused. "We're going to rent a truck when we move, so I can imagine we'll need much more space…"
"Not the main function of a back seat," he interrupted.
She chose not to respond to the innuendo, as it could go no further that words and minor contact. "The Mustang is too big. I want something small, fast and sneaky. Like me."
"Yeah, well you'll have to find something with a bigger back end in that case." His face fell as she glared at him. He seemed to panic. "Whu…I…uh…yeah, oh…the…what I meant…uh…yuh…I think your ass is perfect."
"Of course you do." As punishment for the comment, she squirted a line of whipped cream down the length of her index finger and slowly licked it off. On occasion, he deserved to be teased.
