The Third

9

Sunday arrives in a caseless state. Which does not necessarily mean that a married couple can expect to entice a few private moments from the dawn. Not with the inconsiderate knocking and resultant wailing. The dressing is hurried, the curses are whispered. The boy, he of the feety pajamas and yawns bigger than his face, does not appreciate this version of waking, a condition solved by what arrives in the arms of the unexpected guest. Two distinct glares aimed in that vicinity fail to darken the mood of a woman who favors gifting stuffed baby animal skeletons and needs to share that disturbing love with the impressionable at seven am.

Intimacy is interrupted. The eggs suffer.

The giggling pair is left in the living room to babble about the merits of darkness in bunny form. Meanwhile breakfast is briskly beaten to prevent homicide. Satisfied tha the yellow fluff has been appropriately abused, Ziva introduces the mess to the pan with the kind of pour that suggests liquid can be slammed. Her jaw is cracking holes in the universe. Tony, in frustration that no shower can cure, listens to what he wills himself to view as a welcome friend and not the ruination of potential future babies.

It should again be noted that the eggs suffer. The kind that aren't edible.

Abby's favorite pastime is perusing the wedding album, balancing the book on one knee and a squirming Anthony on the other. Black-lined lips detail every moment of the unlikely event to the boy, whose main interest is pulling on dangling pigtails with slobber-slicked fingers.

"And this is when daddy considered smashing cake into mommy's face. But then he remembered that mommy could make it impossible for him to contribute to your conception."

"Less remembered than reminded," Tony grumbles as a portion of eggs is deposited on his plate. He won't mention that, at present, nothing else is getting conceived since Ziva's not that sort of exhibitionist.

The high chair is readied and Abby gives up her hungry charge with a pout.

"But I was just getting to the good part. You know, when mommy and daddy kissed in the gazebo when no one was looking. Except the photographer, of course. And Gibbs. And me. And that woman who said she was related but couldn't say to whom. But it was a good kiss, audience or not."

That moment represents all that they weren't allowed to achieve today,. But these are things Tony tries desperately not to inform the cheerful, overall-wearing woman. McGee had sought encouragement for his romantic inclination and while Tony did not fail to supply in that regard, he mourns the too-light shove.

An occupied Abby is an Abby not here. Interrupting procreation.

Not that there's an agreement on that objective.

But Tony's a greedy man in the spirit of his covetous male ancestors. Now that the notion of family no longer produces night sweats and break-ups, there could be more bodies seated at this table, sharing these eggs, listening to aunty's tales which pitch tents near the border of truth. Despite their taxing schedule and regardless of logic, he wants another child. Perhaps several. He wants more diapers and onesies and snot and early attempts at backtalk. And giggles and crawling and first steps and that natural scent they've yet to bottle.

Wifely objections notwithstanding.

Previous discussions have given Tony the impression that Ziva is satisfied with their boy's status as an only child. His suggestion that she's dooming Anthony III to a childhood of potentially violent imaginary friends has failed to sway her. First-time parents, she reasons with entire highlighted books to back her up, should focus on one child at a time. But a boy needs a built-in friend. And more so since their time away from the kid is perpetually simultaneous, unless one partner opts to leave NCIS. Another discussion that never ends well.

She's wrong in all the ways she's right. But the want remains undiminished.

And the eggs grow cold. Colder. Frigid. Petrified.

"I know what you're thinking," she says, watching Abby feed a content toddler who no longer needs such service.

Tony follows her gaze. "That McGee had better move quick?"

Ziva shakes her head, removing the unused fork from his hand and running a finger across his lifeline. Her whisper is not meant for company. "Not yet."

"You think he should wait?"

"Not. Yet." Because she knows he knows. Biting his lip, Tony calls up nonchalance but falls apart before it answers.

"But eventually, right?" The hopefulness that seeps out is a thing to be hated.

"Why the hurry?"

There's no good response to that because she's no fan of his insecurities. Options being limited, he lets the Tony of old slip out in the form of a shrug and a mumbled denial.

"No hurry."

Leaning closer and doing nothing to erase this morning's original and brilliant plan, Ziva crooks a finger beneath Tony's chin, seeking attention that wavers for a moment. Because just over his wife's shoulder, Tony spies Abby trying not to look like she's watching them. And failing. But Ziva claims his focus with a deliberate lean. God bless tank tops.

"Not yet." Her kiss is chaste and deadlier than sex. "But soon."


Fear not, I haven't forgotten about Gibbs. He shall make an appearance in the next chapter...