A/N: Well after the phone bill mishap, I can now update :^) so here is Chapter Three, more from Tony's POV (thank you to ncischick09) There will be a short epilogue in addition to this. I liked this one personally, though it doesn't have much dialogue. But that's okay! Here goes it, Kit.

DISCLAIMER: The only thing I own is nothing. Though, aren't we proud that I'm remembering to put these more often?

What Is Here

Three words, granted more complex than they would have been had he said it in English, but three simple little words all the same. Ani ochevet otcha. I love you. Easy, unpretentious, straightforward.

But what the heck was he thinking? Had he taken temporary leave of his senses? He told her he loved her. But why? he mused much later on, sitting alone at his desk in the semi-dark bullpen, McGee having wandered down to Abby's basement domain an hour ago and Gibbs . . . . Well, he wasn't entirely for certain where his silver-haired boss had vanished too –but the man's coat was still draped limp over his chair and his car keys were still waiting idle on his desktop (though the computer monitor was long cold). Ziva had departed sometime around 1900, escaping without a spoken word to him.

Ani ochevet otcha.

The moment the words had left his lips he had suddenly regretted them. Four years ago, she would have castrated him, but now, now she just went blank. She had been open, finally letting him into the carefully guarded fortress she'd erected around herself, inviting him to share in her reminiscing. It was like looking into a window, seeing two little girls playing Barbies, giggling and imagining their happily ever afters. But then he went and opened his big mouth, because she was oh so painfully wrong as to what she actually deserved, and the curtain was abruptly pulled closed again.

She said nothing, not a single sound leaving her lips, though her dark eyes spoke volumes as they always did. And this time he listened, he really truly did, but despite his newly obtained knowledge of the Hebrew language, he still couldn't decipher what she was trying to convey. And then his phone rang because Gibbs' timing was impeccable and fate happened to hate him and as she was about to speak but duty beckoned, her words remaining unspoken.

The odd thing was, and by odd, it was odder than their usual odd, their dynamic was unaffected by his confession. She still teased him, goading him, taunting him with sultry quips and smarting satire, as if nothing had transpired. He considered that perhaps he had dreamt it all . . . .

They both had issues: He had commitment phobias, she had a bizarre aversion to the color red. His quirks were really more faults, he was cynical and sarcastic and forever denying the truth. And her eccentricities were really more erroneous tendencies, she was critical and elusive and apt to hide behind a veil of half-truths. They fought, threatened, and disagreed and managed to survive it all. He went to hell and back for her and it wasn't because of a simple obligation, or because they were partners once, or because of any pursuit of justice. He risked his life, over and over, for her because he loved her. And when he told her, he had actually, genuinely, sincerely meant it.

He was never expected to settle down, settling down sounded like something silt does in still water. Settle down, sink, drown. He had been in relationship after relationship, a track record marked by one night stands with girls that had blank faces in his memory. His longest association with a woman lasted nearly a year, though it had been conceived under false pretenses and ended disastrously for all parties involved . . . . He had asked, once, if she had ever lied to someone she loved and she had responded 'yes.' And while she thought that the one that was deceived had never realized the truth . . . . Well, he did find out after all.

Four years ago, he had been content to mosey through life with no connections, no ties, nothing binding him to anything. And then Ziva came and completely demolished that brilliant plan. . . . He couldn't accurately pinpoint when exactly he realized he loved her. It wasn't sudden, but it wasn't slow. The comprehension didn't miraculously dawn one day when he woke up, or when they lived after another near death experience. The admission was not triggered by the events that had transpired over summer, over seas, the fact that he had actually, effectively, after-several-attempts-succeeded, in losing her, finding her, promptly losing her again, only to relocate her a final time before strengthening his resolve to hold her forever and never let go.

However, as she once had so eloquently put, the heart wants what it wants. And unfortunately, his heart took its sweet time, letting valuable moments escape to never return again, and her heart gave up. The irony being that they seemed to fall in and out of love with each other the opposite of simultaneousness. So neither really, could be blamed. Partially because it was her fault for being Ziva, being lovely and crazy and just so, and partially because it was his fault for being Tony, being stupid and brave and just so. So.

So, he thought, standing from his couch, stretching, rolling his head on his shoulders. He picked up the unopened beer bottle on his coffee table, returning it to the arctic home of his fridge.

There was a knock on his door, it was soft, tentative, uncertain. But in the silent refuge of his apartment, he was able to hear the gentle rapt.

He didn't bother peering through the peephole, he never had and probably never will, -strangely similar to Gibbs, who never locked his front door. And when the door swung open he was taken slightly aback, impressed that after all the lapsed time from her last visit, she could still find her way to his apartment, like those pigeons that just knew. And he knew, he knew that this was of the utmost urgency because she had that intense look she got when she was trying to convey something and he wasn't listening or she couldn't sufficiently articulate. . . . But he was listening now and she was speaking now, whispering candidly and unhindered on his doorstep at three in the morning.

"I love you, Tony."