A/N: Thanks to everyone who reviewed the last chapter and the story so far – I don't think I'll ever get over the little bounce of excitement when Hotmail tells me 'you have xx new messages'. Also, you all totally brightened what has otherwise been an achingly long and very boring few days of forced confinement. A world of thanks.

Dedicated to all the amazing people who take the time to review regularly. I won't name names because it's likely I'll forget someone, and that would be embarrassing. You know who you are.

Of all of them, Abby's reaction to the news that Ziva is alive was the one that stung the most, even if (afterwards) it was possibly the funniest thing she'd seen since Faith had tried to slay an errant cockroach at the breakfast table with a hash brown.

Bookended by McGee and Buffy with Gibbs leading the way, Ziva had stepped through the door clumsily as if her feet were on autopilot. Abby hadn't turned around, just continued typing at her usual mad staccato rate, her hair not in pigtails but in a single ponytail high on her head, the way Ziva used to wear hers sometimes.

Her voice had filtered through in between the keystrokes, the words short (tap tap tap) like the movement of her fingers.

"Gibbs, I don't know why you're here since I didn't even send you any subliminal messages, but while you're here do you think you could tell me – oh. Oh!"

She had leapt at Ziva like she was about to cling onto her like a little spider monkey, and Ziva had braced herself for it in surprise. It was only when Buffy stepped forward like lightning and physically put herself in between Ziva and Abby that Ziva had realised the truth.

Abby had gasped in not-quite-pain, and the makeshift stake had clattered to the ground as Ziva stared wide-eyed at the still-rolling stick of wood. McGee had cursed in Hebrew (at least she'd taught him something) under his breath, and Gibbs had… well, she wasn't entirely sure what Gibbs had done. She couldn't see him from where she was standing, and didn't dare turn her head to look.

"Can I trust you not to do anything stupid?" Buffy asked quietly, and Abby looked both offended and a little horrified, all at once. "Lesson number three: Never doubt a Slayer's spidey-sense." Ziva didn't quite get it, but then Buffy added, "She's not a vampire. I'd know, don't you think? Although you get a point for being prepared." Oh.

She'd have laughed, but it turned out it wasn't all that funny when she really thought about it.

"Well?"

Abby's eyes locked with Ziva's and she muttered something that might have been a yes. It was enough to satisfy Buffy, who let go and stepped back, still watching carefully. Ziva wanted to tell her that it was okay, that these people are – were – her family.

And then Abby stepped forward and slapped Ziva across the face, her eyes shining with hurt.

McGee choked on nothing, and Buffy made as if to step forward, but stopped when Ziva held out a hand.

"I deserved that," she said almost inaudibly. "Just like the last time."

And somehow at Ziva's words (or perhaps the sound of her voice) Abby's face went from being closed off and suspicious to stricken, and this time when she launched herself at Ziva, it was with a choked sob and a crushing grip like she was never letting go again.

"You're really here," she said with childlike wonder, then tightened her grip and leant in. "If you ever pretend to be dead again," she murmured into Ziva's ear, her voice bruised and determined, "I'll kill you myself."

Now, Ziva sits in Abby's lab listening as they bicker around her like she's not even here. Perhaps she's not, and any minute now Buffy will poke her and tell her to wake up, they're almost at the Navy Yard and it's time to go.

Once Palmer and Ducky had arrived and fussed and stammered (and in Palmer's case, tried very hard not to flinch when he offered her an awkward hug), she'd shot Buffy a meaningful glance and the slayer had left the room with a quick word in Gibbs' ear. Ziva hopes Buffy understood what she was asking – to check on Tony. Now she's alone in the room and they're all suggesting theories and asking questions at once.

It's too much. En masse, they are a formidable team, but overwhelming as hell and there are changes in them all that she doesn't want to admit she sees. Then again, she can't deny that she's not the same person they left on the tarmac in Israel.

In the elevator, Gibbs had studied her like she's seen him study case files sometimes, with quiet – almost frightening – focus in his discerning gaze. She heard what Ari said to him in the basement, years ago in what she thinks of now as the stagnant space between her two lives: assassin or agent, wielded or wanted.

It is true and yet not – Gibbs shares some similarities with her father, but he treats his team the way he does out of the fear of losing them, not for the purpose of using their skills to further his own agenda. The head slapping, the biting comments, his constant drive to make them better at what they do – anticipating, connecting, investigating.

She wonders idly if Mossad (and by extension her father, for how do you describe the man if you do not describe the mission, when the two are entangled right down to the core?) is looking for her. She's been wondering this for awhile now, though after hearing Tim's revelation that there was a funeral, she's not quite sure what to think. Part of the reason she didn't want to come back here as herself was from fear of putting the ones she loves in danger.

If Buffy hadn't suggested the glamour, she wouldn't be here right now, sitting in Abby's lab amongst the instruments and humming whizzing whirring machines.

If Buffy hadn't… well, the sentence has many endings, all of them more complex than the rest. Ziva files away a reminder to herself to thank Buffy (and by extension, her friends) someday soon, for more things than she knows how to voice aloud.

Without them… she would not be here. She would not be anywhere.

Once, she had lain broken and done in a dark room. Stared dry-eyed at the cracked ceiling as a monster bit into her neck like a knife through butter, and she had come |thisclose| to begging him to suck her dry. At the time, that was what she thought she wanted.

Ziva's beyond grateful that she got the chance to learn how wrong she was.

"Hey," Buffy says cautiously, suppressing the urge to wrinkle her nose at the smell of vomit. Tony's bent double against the outside wall, his eyes closed tight and his shoulders tight and tense with the effort to control his breathing.

"You okay?"

She's well aware of how stupid it sounds, but really what else is she going to say?

It's not every day you get to see someone you love come back from the dead, huh? Pretty freaky stuff. Did you catch that Rangers game? Oh, and by the way, having that burrito earlier might have been a mistake. Looks like we're expecting rain...

Stupid, Buffy.

Xander would know what to say, she thinks with a frown. Maybe.

It was different for Xander and the others, though – they knew full well what they were doing (well, in a manner of speaking) when they brought her back. Planned for it, expected her arrival even though she hadn't been able to RSVP from Heaven. Like most things on the Hellmouth, it hadn't quite gone to plan, but still – they got what they wanted, and they knew they wanted it in the first place.

Tony hasn't quite figured out what he wants yet, and that's kinda why she's here – despite having the sudden sinking feeling that she's waded out into a stormy sea and promptly found herself way, way out of her depth.

She's seen enough destruction for one lifetime, enough roads-not-taken. And besides, she kinda likes the guy and doesn't want to see him mauled by a Slayer (which is what Faith will probably do if she finds out that he hurt Ziva).

He grows on you, like fungus.

"Never better," he says hoarsely, straightening up slowly and lifting his chin in the direction of a wooden bench not far away in a deserted patch of lawn. "But I think I need to sit down for a minute." He doesn't look back to see if she's following or not.

"Tony – " Buffy starts to say as she falls in behind him, only to be interrupted mid-sentence.

"If you're about to apologise, don't bother." His voice slices through the air like a knife blade, though Buffy isn't entirely sure which one of them he wants to cut.

She watches as he lowers himself onto the bench, studying him carefully. His anger has faded a little, slipped back to simmer beyond the surface as disbelief takes the wheel. Buffy can practically see it spinning behind his eyes, twin pools of confusion and hope.

Oh, the anger's still lurking at the gate like a wolf, but at least it's taken up a supporting role. Until the next act, at least.

"Not planning on it," she says matter-of-factly and watches as he draws back in surprise. "Not that I'm not sorry that it had to happen this way – and to be honest I'm not really sure of the why – oh, I'd planned this whole spiel so you wouldn't get so…"

"Irrationally angry?" he cuts in with an edge of sarcasm, not meeting her gaze. Curtain goes up. "Well, can't win 'em all." Curtain goes down. His eyes meet hers and soften, and she knows what' he's going to ask before he even…

"Where's… where's Ziva?"

Buffy wonders if he realises that he says her name like a benediction, like it's something soft and sweet and precious in his mouth.

"With Agents Gibbs and McGee, down in Abby's lab. They needed time to sort some stuff out." He nods, his brow creasing. Don't we all, she thinks. "I thought maybe you'd want – "

"A shoulder to cry on?" he says flatly, a hint of scorn in his voice. Buffy has to bite down on her impatience at not being able to finish a single. freaking. sentence. Rationally, she knows he's just projecting his anger (and look at her, all knowledgeable with the psych terms today) but it doesn't make it any less annoying.

"Haven't we already deja'ed this vu?" she asks under her breath, and sighs at his blank look.

Gibbs might be a good boss and a good agent, but his whole 'tough love' philosophy is a hard act to follow. Wonder if head smacking is ranked acceptable by Giles' code of ICWS conduct, she thinks with a grin.

Probably no more acceptable than that time Faith got impatient with the former Prime Minister of Turkey and threatened to start cutting off fingers if he didn't let ICWS question his right-hand man over possibly running an underground demon organisation…

Which turned out not only to be true but that most surprising thing was that the PM was his underling in the demon world. Faith got her wish, and Giles got a whole crap-load of paperwork. The Turkish government just shrugged their collective shoulders and announced another election, but the Watcher accompanying Faith had told Giles about the slayer's pre-demon-reveal comments and expressed his concerns about public relations.

Hence the 'why' of having a code, even if Giles didn't include Faith's suggestion of 'thou shalt not stake thy annoying Watcher wannabe tagalong.'

She settles for a dose of good old 'Agent Buffy' tact, which basically means saying exactly what she thinks, only with a slightly more winning smile than usual to hide the bite under her words. The same tone she uses with the bigwigs at Coalition meetings, actually. I'm just a silly little girl who.. whoops, did I do that to your nose? Terribly sorry.

Well, maybe she better leave out the blatant hints of violence… just this one time.

"I was just gonna say I thought maybe you'd want a bit of perspective about this whole mess, from someone who's been there, done that. But – no offense – being interrupted all the time grates, and I've pretty much reached my daily quota of heartfelt emotional speeches, so why don't I just leave you to stew in your anger or guilt or whatever? Come find me if you've got questions."

The words come out less sympathetically than she was aiming for, but he doesn't strike her as the type that responds well to coddling and back-patting. Plus, she's learnt over the years that sometimes when people just don't want to listen, it's better to bail and let them deal in their own way than to break out the 'speech hammer' and start pounding them over the head with it.

Sometimes, unless they're threatening her rental deposit with their mad knife skills.

She spins on her heel and turns back toward the main entrance, hoping that in her absence nobody's snapped and killed anyone else. Ziva in almost full freak-out mode, two suspicious federal agents, one highly-strung lab tech, one adult Harry Potter type, and Ducky (possibly the least surprised of the group). And a partridge in a bloody pear tree, a voice that sounds suspiciously like Spike snarks in her head.

Still, there are some battles that Buffy just can't fight. Ziva needs to sort it out alone, though she's not entirely averse to helping out with a few gentle pushes here and there..

"You died," Tony says slowly from behind her, like he's trying the words on for size. "Abby found a photo of your headstone on some demon website. You look…"

Buffy stops in her tracks, though she's not completely surprised. Someone's been doing their homework. Perhaps a little more thoroughly than she'd like, but points for tenacity.

"Pretty spry for a corpse? Yeah. Heard that one before. And if you wanna get all technical about it, I died twice." He does an almost comical double-take, and she shrugs. "Death is my gift, apparently. "

"Should've asked for store credit," he says with a hint of a grin, and the tension drains from him slowly. "Uh… sorry for being an asshole before. To have Ziva just reappear like that out of nowhere like… I can't even think of a movie. It's a lot, y'know?"

Buffy nods her agreement, moving back toward him and perching on the top of the bench, feet planted on the seat. Her heels click on the wood as she shifts position (god, they couldn't provide couches out here?) and waits.

"How did – where was– when…" he says in a jumble, like his brain's moving too fast for his mouth.

"All excellent not-really-questions," Buffy replies, "which you should probably ask Ziva." Okay, it's possibly the most transparent attempt ever, but a girl's gotta try.

"Don't think she's in the mood to talk to me at the moment," Tony says bitterly, his thumb rubbing at a spot on his pants. "Things ended… badly between us. She pretty much said she wished I had died, which is a real mood killer."

Buffy snorts. "Yeah, which is why she was so nervous on the drive here that she practically put her knife through the dashboard on four different occasions," she mutters just loud enough for him to hear, and then slips down onto the seat beside him with a little sigh.

"You're angry with her. That might be justified, I really don't know enough about it to make judgements. And okay, there's the whole 'Surprise! Back from the dead' thing, but that really wasn't her fault. I think. I'm no magic expert, but I think Ziva got a little overwhelmed and sabotaged the spell herself by accident. Emotions and magic are like oil and water, and obviously someone – " and she shoots him a pointed look, " – is like her Kryptonite; they get too close and wham! Supreme Mossad undercover skills just fade away, glamour or no glamour."

"Huh," he says, looking a little overwhelmed himself. "Out of interest, what was the actual plan? To get us all down into Abby's lab where we could talk about our feelings and sing Kumbaya?"

"God no," Buffy groans, wrinkling her nose, "I don't really know what Ziva was planning. Her show, her lead. Although if your fantasy campfire plan included s'mores, I'd give it serious consideration." He snorts at something she's said and Buffy shrugs and decides not to ask.

"Speaking of, is there someplace half decent to eat around here? We skipped lunch travelling through time and space and whatever, and I could just slay a burger right now."

"Yeah," Tony says after a minute, perking up noticeably at the mention of food. "Shouldn't we…" he gestures vaguely toward the building, and Buffy frowns, considering the possibility that there's currently a brawl going on in Abby's lab. Then again…

"I think this is one of those 'too many cooks' moments," she says slowly. "But you go ahead, if you want. I'll ask the lovely security man who tried to put his hands in sacred places if he'd like an ICWS-sponsored lunch. Or something else that rhymes, maybe."

Ziva had asked her to go and talk to Tony, after all, and Buffy's not at all worried about her ability to handle herself if things get ugly. Which she's pretty sure they won't, though she did make Ziva leave her knife in the car (just in case).

"So," she says conversationally as the two of them stroll across the lawn, "How long have you been jonesing for our favourite ninja?" Tony misses a step and stumbles.

It's almost too easy, and though it feels a little like she's channelling Cordelia, he lets out a bark of surprised laughter at her bluntness before going on the defensive. Laughter is better than anger-induced vomiting.

"I'm not – I don't… Gibbs has rules about agents fraternizing… We were just partners."

"And I'm the Queen of England," Buffy says with a smirk. "I saw the way you looked at her during your elevator grope-fest. You're in it so deep you couldn't dig your way out with both hands and one of those GPS thingies."

For a moment Tony looks like he's going to protest, but then he cocks his head and his expression clears like the sun breaking through the clouds.

"Yeah," he says with a tiny smile, "I guess I am."

"Well, I'm just saying that…" McGee says in frustration, throwing up his hands and pacing around the table where Abby usually examines evidence.

He's still the same McGee who tried to comfort her after Gibbs told her about the destruction of her apartment, but he has a new protective layer over his soft skin, and it hardens his eyes in a way she's not entirely sure she likes. Now as he argues whatever point he's making, his hands thud dully on the scratched metal. His reflection is distorted by the warp of the surface and it bulges and wavers as he moves.

It is not unlike the mirrors she remembers from the time Tony insisted on taking her to a carnival, to experience 'another good old American pastime, Zee-vah. Corn dogs and spun sugar and whirling around in metal cages until you puke.' America has some strange ideas and dreams, but oh how she once wanted them for herself. Wants?

Now, they've warped and stretched like Tim's reflection, because she's not sure where she fits anymore.

Having seen their expressions as each of them reacted to her return, she can't help but wonder if this was a mistake. Oh, she understands all too well about shock; about traumatic events and reactions and letting things absorb slowly rather than dumping it all on a person at once.

She understands that they deal in evidence, in closing the case, in facts – and that no doubt the evidence that she was dead was flawlessly falsified and hammered into them until they had no choice to believe it was truth.

The head understands, but the heart is screaming.

And… she's really going to have to ask Willow what the hell happened to the glamour, though a little part of her is glad it did fail, otherwise odds are they'd still be calling her Perkins, nodding politely at her before getting into the details of the case while she trembled inside and tried to come up with the best way to word it.

They'd be calling her Perkins, and Tony would be looking at her like he couldn't believe how rude and uptight she was, but at least he would be looking at her. At least somebody would be.

Maybe she's really not here after all.

"Ziva?" McGee asks gently from a safe distance, and the concern in his voice makes her glance up and realise that they're all staring at her. And apparently, she's started crying without having even noticed. She swipes angrily at her face and takes a deep breath, staring down at the floor.

"My dear," Ducky says carefully from his spot near the refrigerator, "May I be so bold as to ask what happened?" She's grateful to him for the attempt to distract from her show of emotion, though what a question. His eyes have the slightly calculating gleam that he gets when he's trying to trick people into doing exactly what he wants.

Behind her, someone lays a hand on her shoulder, and the heat of it bleeds slowly through her body. Ducky doesn't quite hide his smile quickly enough, and Ziva raises her eyebrows at him. Not her that was the object of manipulation, then.

"Duck, maybe another time?" Gibbs says from somewhere above her head, and she bites her lip to stop a sob escaping. He sounds like Gibbs again, not a mistrustful stranger that she once used to know.

"Ziver," he continues in almost-reproach , "I thought I told you to take care of yourself."

"I tried, Gibbs," she says softly, and despite his words to Ducky she starts to tell them the same story she told Buffy and Giles, of undercover missions and capture and waking up to find herself in Hell on Earth.

She gives them the details in a flat voice as though the evenness of her tone will distract from the horror of the story, though she's careful to edit out all of the most disturbing parts. Gibbs' hand remains on her shoulder in support throughout, and once when she stops to choke on the memories he squeezes gently and she's suddenly able to continue again.

"Don't," she says uselessly when she finishes and they all immediately start talking at once, indignant and furious on her behalf. She's never loved them more than that moment when they swell and rage against those who seek to hurt her, despite all the damage she's caused. "McGee, Ducky, Abby… everyone, just stop!"

They cut off mid-sentence and stare. "You cannot change the past. It is done, yes? And I am sorry that you had to… that my father told you what he did, and I do not really know why, but… It is done."

She can't imagine her funeral; she wonders if her mother came from Russia for the ceremony, and wonders morbidly if the coffin was empty and if not, whose daughter is buried under a stone carved with her name?

"What now?" someone – Palmer? – asks, and she shakes her head.

"I don't know, Jimmy. Obviously I cannot come back to work for NCIS. For all intents and purposes, Ziva David is officially dead – " she tries to hide how much those words hurt, " – and therefore of no use to Mossad. I cannot be an effective Liaison Officer without an agency to liaison with."

Abby looks like she's just been reminded (again) about NCIS dress code, and McGee looks disappointed but not really surprised. He looks to Gibbs, an idea forming in his head. "Couldn't she come back as… Perkins, or something?"

"Not as a field agent. She'd still have to apply like everyone else, McGee, not to mention pass all the background checks and complete FLETC training. Also, you need to be an American citizen to be employed by NCIS, unless there are special circumstances such as a 'liaison' position."

"They specify in the rulebook that it has to be a Mossad liaison position?" Buffy says thoughtfully from the doorway as all eyes dart to her. Ziva spins on her chair and looks at the slayer carefully, a question in her eyes. Buffy shrugs briefly and jerks her head backward, though there's nobody behind her. Ziva's lips tremble just a little.

"Ziva, you got a sec?" Buffy asks, stepping back into the hallway expectantly.

Abby makes a small sound in her throat and Ziva shoots her a reassuring glance. "I will be right back, Abby."

"Last time you walked out of here," Abby says with an edge to her voice, "the next I heard of you was a news report on ZNN saying that you'd been blown up. Well actually, it was Daddy Dearest who told us that via the most un-fun first MTAC conversation ever, but y'know, details."

Ziva fights the urge to sigh. Clearly, there are still a lot of things they need to work through, but she just doesn't have the energy at the moment. "I will be right back," she says firmly instead, and steps out the door and into the elevator with Buffy.

"Thought you could use some fresh air," Buffy says after a minute of silence, watching as Ziva leans against the wall in exhaustion. "It's gonna be like that for awhile, with the awkwardness and their panic every time you leave the room. It'll pass." It's hard not to believe Buffy when she speaks with such confidence. "You okay?"

"Not really," Ziva says absently as the doors open into the foyer. Buffy leads her outside, leering at the overweight security guard who thanks to his wandering hands will probably be the recipient of a harmless revenge spell once they've signed out of the building. "I did not think it would be so…"

"Yeah, you did. That's why you were wigging out in the car."

Ziva touches her hair self-consciously. "Wigging?"

"Freaking. Getting your scare on. Sweaty-palmed. Whatever."

"Oh."

Buffy stops dead and indicates an empty bench under one of the trees that line the grounds. "Something Gibbs said gave me an idea, so I have to go make some calls despite the fact that it's oh-dark-thirty back in England. Giles'll probably be sound asleep and therefore fully expecting an apocalypse alert when I wake him up with whatever cheesy song Faith's set his cell to this week. 'Sexy Eyes' was last weeks' selection."

They share a knowing grin. The brunette slayer loves to tease Giles, and despite his offended front they've both caught him chuckling when he catches her in a scheme. Buffy points to the bench again. Subtle, she is not.

"You should go sit down for awhile, enjoy the fresh air."

"I have had plenty of fresh air during my time in – " And seeing Buffy's slightly exasperated glance, Ziva salutes sarcastically and makes her way over to the bench without argument.

She closes her eyes and breathes in the scents of afternoon sun and freshly cut grass, and becomes aware of someone standing close to her. His presence is familiar, and it makes her heart skip and stutter in her chest.

"I missed you," she says quietly without opening her eyes, and Tony sighs and sits down on the bench next to her. Their arms brush gently and when his skin leaves hers she feels cold. He doesn't acknowledge or refute her remark, and she hears the sound of palms rasping on cloth as she waits for him to speak.

"There's a lot to talk about," Tony says slowly and carefully, his voice calm.

"Yes."

Ziva shifts just a little, imagining she can feel the heat of his body pressed against her side. She hears the wooden slats of the bench creak, and winces slightly at being discovered. To her surprise, he doesn't pull away – if anything, he's closer than before and she can smell his shampoo and cologne and something that is undeniably just… Tony.

"Trust to be rebuilt on both sides."

I forgive you, she thinks, but does not say it aloud. There's nothing like downtime between torture sessions to give you a bit of clarity. She did not love Michael, she was just infatuated with the idea of being lovable. And really, Tony did not do anything wrong other than try and 'watch her six' as best he could, and how could she fault him for that?

"Yes."

She doesn't dare to open her eyes, knowing that the second she does they'll likely overflow. Has he always made her feel this out of control?

His hand cups her cheek impossibly gently and she leans into the touch, thinking that she's got another thing to add to the growing list of 'things to thank Buffy for.' A tear slides from under her eyelashes and trails slowly down her cheek despite her best intentions, and Tony wipes it away with the pad of his thumb.

"Zee-vah," he says with equal parts wonder and affection, as if he still can't quite believe that she's there in front of him. "I never thought…I'm so sorry that you… oh for fuck's sake, I'm channelling McBabble!"

Ziva opens her eyes at that, and looks at him carefully. "I certainly hope not," she says hesitantly, "because although I love McGee, I have never had the urge to do this with him." Before she can lose her nerve, she leans forward and captures his lips with hers, because really there's just no way things could get any worse, right?

It's a band-aid on a bullethole in the grand scheme of things, but it feels good to stop analysing and just lose herself in the moment.

They forget everything around them, forget that there are agents inside behind many many windows, no more than peeping toms with shiny badges; and catcalling sailors and random strangers outside strolling the grass. Hands clasp and roam with a knife-edge of desperation, lips meet and melt and part.

It might just be her imagination, but he tastes like corn dogs and spun sugar, like waking up from a dream and finding out that it's real, he's really there, you didn't imagine it.

Oh god.

They clash with clumsy fingers and searing heat, Tony sighing into her open mouth as Ziva runs her fingers through his hair and down his back. His hand slides into her curls – he's always been so fascinated by her hair– twirling the soft strands around his steady fingers as he lays a blazing trail of kisses across her jaw and down her neck.

She moans something in a rough voice that might be his name and might be a prayer and who really cares which because either way the sentiment remains the same.

She's kissed him before, but never like this, and though part of her is mortified at such a public display of affection (even if to the outside world she still wears someone else's face), a larger and far more insistent part of her is screaming at her oh god oh don't stop, don't stop.

Ziva pulls back, breathing heavily and cursing her own rational nature, and Tony groans wordlessly and tries to reel her back in. Hook, line and sinker.

Lips meet, soft and gentle this time like they've got all the time in the world for fast and furious. Ziva fights to keep the tears at bay and as if Tony senses this, he pulls her into him and wraps his arm around her shoulders, letting her bury her face in his shirt and shake quietly with the stress and emotion of the past couple of days.

When she's cried herself out and is red-faced and more than a little embarrassed, she tries to shift away. Tony's apparently having none of that. He drops a kiss on her forehead and tightens his grip on her; but doesn't press for details. She gives in and rests her head on his shoulder, wondering idly whether Abby has organised a search party yet.

There are still things to be said, and they're by no means fixed, but right now Ziva's content to press against him and bask in the sunlight filtering through the trees as the world passes them by, just a little too bright around the edges.

"You realise that the entire base will be talking about your gripe-fest with the mousy brunette Englishwoman for the rest of the week, yes?" She says to bring them both back to reality, intentionally messing up the term so that she can hear him correct her in his laughing 'oh, you're adorably hopeless' voice.

Truth be told, it's been months since she made a genuine mistake – with him at least. (She finds it hard to follow Buffy and her friends' odd speech patterns sometimes, and it confuses her). You don't learn the best part of ten languages without having an ear for the small nuances of speech, and she mangles her idioms more to get a reaction from him than anything else. He doesn't disappoint.

"It's grope-fest, Zee-vah, and what can I say? I'm the office stud." He gooses her in the ribs playfully, "And since you brought up groping…"

She pushes his hands away, laughing throatily. "Now is not the time or place, Tony."

"Didn't seem to bother you five minutes ago." He shifts, suddenly uncomfortable. "You're staying around for a bit, right? I mean, I know Buffy's got that case to sort out, but you don't have to go do… whatever it is you've been doing for the past couple weeks?"

Instead of replying, she tilts her face up to him and pulls him into a long, searing kiss.

They've always communicated better without words anyway.

*Sigh* This turned into some kind of freaky hybrid of 'shades of almost-smut and angst' and 'comedy noir', almost against my will. Muse is not happy with current narcotic-affected working conditions, and has certainly staged a protest strike on all things 'Smoke'. (Drugs are bad, mmmmmkay?)