CHAPTER ELEVEN

She woke with his arm encircling her, keeping her in place. She wondered if this was the first time Tony had woken up next to a woman without having slept with her the night before. She knew it was a first for her. Even when Michael had been living at her apartment before he died, they had always had sex first. It seemed to give them an excuse to then fall asleep in silence.

"Morning, beautiful," he whispered, a smile spreading across his face. He could get used to this. Ziva being the first sight he saw when he woke up, the first scent he smelled, the first voice he heard.

"Good morning, Tony," she murmured sleepily. He loved how her accent seemed just that little bit stronger just after she woke up, and just before she fell asleep.

He checked the time. 5.45 am. When did he become an early riser? Oh yeah, when he had Ziva in his bed, and he didn't want to waste a moment of it sleeping.

"So, Ziv-ah, what did you have planned for today?" He asked playfully, hoping that her answer involved him.

"Well," she began lazily, trying to remember what Sunday's looked like before Tony was in the picture. Usually she would get up early to run, go to the gym, have a bath, do the grocery shopping…

"Nothing in particular," she answered instead. "Wouldn't mind staying in bed for a while," she smiled, and he grinned back.

"Sounds pretty damn good."

He kissed her slowly, then brushed the hair out of her face. His hand stopped at a blemish on her shoulder – the scar from a burn – and a flaw in the otherwise perfect olive skin. He pressed a kiss into it, hopelessly trying to make it disappear.

"Tony…" She sighed, and he dropped his hand.

"Sorry," he told her. He knew she didn't want to talk about it, it was an unspoken agreement. She would tell him when she was ready. He wasn't sure that he was ready. He hated the scars that her body bore, memories of an experience they would both rather forget.

"I'm sorry they hurt you, Ziva," he said simply, like a child.

Panic overwhelmed her. She wasn't ready to give this up yet. The comfort, his ignorance to what had truly happened that summer. The events that still occasionally caused her to wake in a sweat, questioning where she was. She knew he wouldn't be able to handle it, the truth. He would run, and once again, she would be alone. The last thing she wanted to be.

"Mmm," she agreed in response, at a loss as to what else to say, meanwhile vowing that he would never know just how deep the scars were.


A/N: just a short one, but there will be more tomorrow :)