Disclaimer: I OWN NOTHING OF NCIS. OBVIOUSLY.
(Set sometime in the future, if the debacle that is WTF/PPF and everything after that never existed)


"I almost pissed myself when she called him Uncle Probie last weekend," he says with a look of pride until a punch lands squarely on his bicep. "What?"

"Tony. I thought we discussed the nicknames and what our daughter will and will not call people." She's shaking her head, but he knows she's just as amused.

"It's fine, Ziva. Tim was too stunned to say anything, and I distracted the kids with a Disney movie before any of them could ask too many questions." They had spent the better part of an hour in their kitchen; Ziva perched on the counter next to the sink. Tony washed the dishes while she dried. Handing her another plate, she gave him a look that said you're avoiding.

"What do you want me to say, Ziva? I don't think he's ready? I think he should stay in D.C. where all of his family are? And Delilah's doctors? And the kids school? Fine, I'll say all of those things."

Gibbs had been retired almost three years, and Tony had lead the team since then. McGee was his senior field agent; seasoned and capable, and unfortunately for Tony, newly promoted.

"At least he will still be stateside. They could have sent him overseas. Ankara, Rabat, Cape Town…" he puts up a hand to stop her before she recites every NCIS field office locale.

"And what about me, Ziva? Huh? Now I'll be looking for a new Senior Field Agent, and we're still breaking in the last probie." He clamps an exasperated hand on the rim of the sink, then moves to turn off the water. He faces her in all seriousness, "Look. I lost you to that whole 'can't supervise your wife thing,' so there's one of my best gone. Then they pull Bishop back to NSA, which isn't the worst thing but I did put some work into her and for what? And now they want McGee? No, Ziva. No." He's gesticulating wildly now, and gives emphasis on the final no.

She waits him out in only the way that she can. Taking a deep breath, he drops a hand to grip her thigh, and she instinctively closes her fingers around his.

"Tony, I know you will miss McGee. He is your best friend – "

He cuts her off quickly, "You're my best friend."

"And you are mine," she replies but doesn't miss a beat, "your best man friend then." He scoffs, but doesn't correct her. "It's time for Tim to move on."

"Ziva, do you know how many close calls we've had over the years? Who's going to watch his six in Sand Diego?" His petulant tone is rubbing her the wrong way, but she tries to bite back her annoyance. He needs her support, even if he's making it almost impossible.

"Close only counts in horseshoes and hand grenades, Tony."

He turns to her with an affronted expression. "You must miss Gibbs because I could swear his voice just projected out of your mouth."

"I am wrong?" She does her best ninja glare, but he can only roll his eyes. Fifteen years of partnership and five years of marriage and she has yet to make a serious attempt on his life, paperclip, credit card, or otherwise.

"Do you even know how to play horseshoes?"

"Of course not," she replies with a dismissive wave of her hand. "I do, however, have an intimate knowledge of hand grenades." He can't help but snort at her matter-of-fact delivery.

"Tony." She places a hand on his shoulder and waits, one finger tapping out a gentle rhythm. A long moment passes before he turns to her, square-jawed and tight lipped, but his eyes betray him.

"I know you will miss McGee, as will I." Her fingers trail slowly from his shoulder to the joining of his neck then upward, until she is lightly caressing his jawline with the back of one finger. "I had hoped, maybe selfishly, that our children would all grow up together. You know how much Norah adores her Uncle Tim." He turns his head to kiss her finger, as she moves slowly to palm his cheek.

"He's just a kid, Ziva," concern for his friend clouding his professional judgment, she hardens her gaze minutely.

"He is not a child, Tony." With a firm but caring voice, she continues, "In fact, he is a father of two. Perhaps more importantly for this purpose, he is a very fine agent who had exceptional training."

Releasing a heavy sigh, he nods against her hand before pulling away to stare out the kitchen window. "I know. He had the fortune of learning from one Leroy Jethro Gibbs." Tony puffs his chest in mock importance. "I know he's a good agent, Ziva. It doesn't mean I want him to leave."

He turns back to her then, her knee resting against his hip as he leans toward her. Knowing what she is going to say but needing to her it all the same, he laces the fingers of one hand with hers.

"Tim was your probie, Tony. You are the one who trained him. He is a good agent on his own merit, but he would not have been successful without you. He would not have been offered a team of his own if he were not first shown what it is to be a leader." Focusing on their joined hands as she speaks, he runs his thumb along the back of her palm in slow circles. He takes a deep breath in through his nose before raising his head again in an attempt to clear the weighted feelings currently threatening to besiege him.

"I love you," he says earnestly, his eyes finally meeting hers. She holds his gaze for only a moment before leaning forward and pressing a quick kiss to the tip of his nose.

"As you should, motek," she replies with a scrunch of her nose and a satisfied smile. Chuckling, he shakes his head several times. She really is something.

A loud thud accompanied by a crash, several barks, and what sounds distinctly like breaking glass echoes from the upstairs. They turn to each other in unison, "She's up."

Ziva hangs her head in joking defeat as she hops off the counter. "I will go see what predicament our daughter and from the sound of it, also our dog, have gotten themselves into." Reaching up, she presses a warm kiss to his jawline, just below his ear. When she pulls back, he can still feel her lips on his skin. "I love you, too," she whispers, the hand resting on his shoulder traveling down his back where she swiftly places a soft swat to his backside.

"Now finish those dishes!" She calls out, exiting the kitchen and crossing the living room. He can't help the smile or the wince, as she reaches the top of the stairs and he hears her yell, "Norah Mae DiNozzo do I even want to know what is going on here?"

Sometimes, change is a good thing, he tell himself with a laugh, as he turns back to finish the dishes.


Author's note: previously posted on tumblr (hiatus drabble project 4/13; based on the writeworld promot: "Close only counts in horseshoes and hand grenades."