A/N: So here is chapter two. Thank you all so much for your kind reviews and thoughts on the finale.

Important Note: There is still one more chapter to come – however, I am going away on holiday this Sunday, which means I'll have no access to a computer (yes, I'm going to go mad). Therefore it is very unlikely that I will be able to update again before mid July – I will try my hardest to get chapter three ready by Saturday – but I'm going to be very busy, so I'm not sure Ill be able to get it finished. Fingers-crossed though!

I'm thinking that if this scenario was ever played out/covered in season eight, that we'd actually see Tony struggling more negatively about having missed Ziva's ceremony than Ziva herself – due to feeling guilty, and feeling like he's let her down. Anyway, my take on what would happen is below!

Enjoy, and let me know what you think :)

Thirty-four steps lead him to the floor on which Ziva's apartment is situated – and it's thirty-three times that he entertains the cowardly notion of turning on his heel and sprinting back out the building – avoiding what would most likely be a disastrous discussion ending in either tears, injury, or death.

On step thirty four he figures he should just stop being such a lame-ass dickhead and get on with it because he owes her an apology and that's not going to change.

Her front door feels warm as he raps his knuckles – once, twice, thrice – against it – and in his anxious state he deliriously ponders if all front doors are that temperature and if so why has nobody noticed it before. The seconds tick by as he attempts to rationalise the idea of installing some kind of cooling system in the wood to refresh your hands in the summer – anything to distract him from the fact that no tell-tale shuffling can be heard coming from the inside of the apartment.

Awww, shit.

It would be just his luck that she's out at - like - eleven in the evening at the very moment he absolutely needs to see her, you know. He glances at his watch nervously. Eleven nineteen, to be precise.

Since when did Ziva go out at such a late hour on a work night, anyway?

This thought spurs the formation of a slippery slope of dangerously frustrating theories inside his brain. Ones along the lines of – 'She's out drowning her sorrows in a nearby club, bitterly celebrating her citizenship alone' or 'she's getting hit on by some drunken jackass' and – oh God! – 'she's with a guy. Shit, she's on a date, with a guy.'

Or maybe – says a little voice inside his head (one which sounds uncannily like Gibbs' – though he'll never admit it out loud) – maybe she's just asleep, you fool.

For the sake of his sanity (hearing Gibbs inside his head is decidedly not a good sign), he decides that Ziva must be in the apartment, lying haphazardly on her bed and emitting snores that could rival the sound of a foghorn. So he knocks again – this time six times – barely holding back the urge to shout her name in the hopes that she might hear him.

He holds his breath, and for a second he hears nothing.

Thump-thump.

Relief floods though him –so she was there, after all and now he's terrified, because he hasn't thought of what to say, really. But then he remembers that he hasn't seen her in over three days, and he forgets about the words and just focuses on the image of her opening the door, unruly curls framing her face – that beautiful look of confusion in her sleepy eyes- eyebrows knitting together and lips pouting in that manner that just makes him want to hug her to him-

And suddenly the door opens and she's there before him, hair dryer in one hand, a look of genuine surprise on her face. The tips of her hair are still wet, leaving mottled marks on her top and her curls have gone fuzzy in the heat but she looks so breathtaking that he just stares and stares and stares.

He should probably say something right about now, though.

'You're American now.'

Jesus Christ. Talk about verbal diarrhoea.

Liquid brown eyes shimmer with something akin to happiness and he can't help but think how terribly wrong it all is - that she can look at him so affectionately when he's just betrayed her and broken a promise that she had been looking forward to seeing fulfilled so much – 'cause yeah, he still remembers how her face lit up with a radiant smile when he'd first made it.

He had expected her to be furious. To glare fiercely, eyes glinting with hatred, mouth twisted into a snarl. To punch him in the gut. To break his nose.

What he gets, though – as soon as he steps hesitantly into the front room and drops his bags – is a small Ziva-bundle ramming into him and attaching herself to his torso, her face pressed against his sternum with so much force that he can actually feel her grinning against his chest.

He finds his arms have come up instinctively around her small frame – the fingers on one hand ensnaring errant curls and his other arm wrapping around the small of her back. They stand like that for what seems like ages, but eventually he prises himself from her grip a little.

The longer she is pressed up against him - smiling for him, calm and content - the more he feels like he wants to cry.

'Ziva, I'm so, so sorry,' he manages to choke out. A momentary look of surprise on her face is quickly smoothed away, and slender hands reach up to cup his face. Her expression is clear and she smiles again, the pads of her thumbs rubbing against his cheekbones.

'It is okay, Tony, really. You couldn't have known Vance would send you away,' her eyes light up again with a tenderness that makes his heart melt. 'I am so glad you've returned in one piece,' she whispers. It's kinda weird in a way, seeing as that exact same thought runs through his head just about every single time he's laid eyes on her since last summer.

Last summer.

All this kindness she's directing towards him – a tenderness that should absolutely not be happening – is making him feel worse and worse and it is like there's a spring in his chest that is dying to snap and release ugly emotions and tears and curses.

Because if he thinks about it, his relationship with her is one based on a handful of missed moments – every single moment pulling them apart until the bond that holds them together is as taut as can be, and then pushing them back together. And he's sick of it, to be honest. Someone – something – is screwing them around and they're not going anywhere. Just moving back and forth, like puppets led to and fro across a pretend stage. They're suffering because nothing is happening. It is always the same.

Pull and push, pull and push.

No more pulling, please.

Because he loves her so much, so please, no more pulling away.

Reviews are very much appreciated :)