A/N: This chapter is set at the end of "Framed-Up".

The second time they sleep together, it's a little less serendipitous and a little more intentional. Still, it makes sense. They spend so much time together almost every day that they're bound to know how to please one another. Partners in the field and partners in bed—isn't that how it's supposed to work?

Finding out that "Chip" set him up is a shock, but given the way his week is going, Tony just isn't all that surprised anyway. He leaves work feeling strange; there are imaginary handcuffs on his wrists and he just knows that he won't be allowed to make it back to his apartment scot-free without being thrown back in prison. He doesn't believe that the case is over and that his innocence has been proven.

He makes it home without incident, though, and goes straight to the fridge for a beer. He drinks half of it before he's even made it to the couch, and by the time he's decided on a movie to watch, he's finished it altogether. A second beer in hand, he turns on an old Scorsese and tries not to think about how close he came to going down for murder today.

It's hard not to think about, though, and he finds that he can't lose himself in the boxing flick like he usually would. The second beer disappears down his throat, and then a third follows. Halfway through his fourth, there's a knock on his door.

He goes to answer it, rubbing his eyes and wishing that whoever it is would just go away. To his surprise, his partner is standing on the other side of the door. Holding up a bag of food as an explanation, she lightly pushes past him to invite herself inside. Starting to feel pleasantly fuzzy from the beer, Tony doesn't stop her.

"I'm getting a little deja vu here, Ziva," he tells her, closing the door and following as she sets up food on his kitchen table. "Didn't you just worry and try to feed me a week or two ago?"

She glances up at him. "This is how Jewish people express concern," she tells him with a grin, turning back to her work. It's burgers and fries this time. He notices that his has cheese while hers doesn't, and he wonders for the first time if she's a practicing Jew or not.

"What's concerning you this time?" he asks, mildly amused. "Last time I was injured. Today I'm just dandy."

"You were framed for murder, Tony. If there is one time a man might need a full stomach, I would think that this would be it."

"I can't argue that," he sighs, giving in. He pulls a new beer out of the fridge for her and sits down opposite her chair. "Cheers to… innocence and all that, I guess."

"L'chaim," Ziva agrees, clinking her bottle to his, and they tuck into their food. After a moment of companionable silence, she speaks up again. "Tell me, Tony… do you think that prison has hardened you?" There's a sparkle in her eye that undermines her pseudo-serious tone.

He chuckles in response. "Undoubtedly. I've seen things you wouldn't believe, David. It's a cruel world in there, every man for himself." In his best Raging Bull De Niro impression, he adds "I don't go down for nobody."

"Every man for himself?" Ziva repeats, taking a pull from her beer. "That is not what I have heard. Are there not prison gangs? Is that just a film trope?" The smirk on her face tells Tony that she's enjoying this just as much as he is. Neither of them, of course, acknowledge that his temporary holding cell was only moderately uncomfortable at worst.

"Well, of course there are, but you can't really trust a murderer who leads a group of other murderers, can you?"

"I suppose you cannot." Her thoughts flit momentarily to her father and her fellow members of Mossad, but she doesn't want to think heavy things right now. That's not exactly what she's here for. "Did you just avoid such gangs altogether, then?"

"Of course I didn't—have some faith! No, I survived by taking over the biggest gang."

"Naturally. I can only assume that you learned to lead from Gibbs, so you kept your new prison team in line with head slaps."

"Me? Assault members of my team? You bet your sweet Mossad ass I did." Tony winks at Ziva, making her laugh.

"Okay, okay," she says. "So you were king of the prison for your whole… mm, two days there? That is a very impressive track record. Did you find time to get a prison tattoo?"

Tony leans in closer and lowers his voice. "Maybe if you're a good girl and you eat all of your food, you can find out for yourself."

At this, Ziva throws her head back and laughs. Tony's surprised by how boisterous she seems this evening; maybe she really was worried about him. "I bought this food, Tony, and I can eat however much of it that I wish to."

"Yes, that may be your prerogative," Tony counters, smiling smugly, "but you see, Ziva, as the king of the prison—and you said yourself that I am—it's my prerogative to reward you or not reward you as I see fit." A little warning bell in the back of his mind reminds him that they're veering into slightly dangerous territory. As delicious as last time was—and he's certainly thought about it enough while alone in his shower or in his bed late at night—they're still coworkers, and some things are hard to come back from.

"But we are not in prison right now, are we?"

"Doesn't matter. Prison tats are prison jurisdiction."

"Well, then, who am I to argue with the prison king?" Ziva's voice is sultry enough to make Tony's pants feel tight, and he clears his throat and stands up.

Shoving the last bite of hamburger in his mouth, he starts to clear the table. There's little to clean up, though, since everything is in disposable takeout containers, and within a minute, he's out of logical things to do with his hands. Unsure of whether he wants to pursue what Ziva seems to be offering him or not, he heads further into the kitchen to buy time. He has a few dishes in the sink, and now seems as good a time as any to wash them.

Unfortunately, Ziva follows. If asked to guess, he might say that she understands his dilemma and is amused by it. She isn't going to make things easy on him, is she?

As he grabs the dish soap and gets to work, Ziva hops up to sit on the counter next to him, watching. "Dishes are easier to clean when they have not been sitting dirty overnight," she tells him helpfully.

Despite himself, he has to rise to her teasing. "How would you know? You only ever eat takeout!"

"That is not true! Just because you do not see it does not mean that I do not cook on my own time."

"Oh, yeah? Why do you keep bringing me burgers and Chinese rather than cooking me falafel, then?" He turns to grin at her, hoping he won't need to list more Israeli or Middle Eastern foods. His knowledge is scarce, and he thinks he should brush up on it just to learn a little more about her. (He doesn't want to think too deeply about where that desire comes from, though.)

"Maybe you are not worth the effort," Ziva suggests, quirking an eyebrow.

Tony laughs out loud, and setting the last dish aside, he goes to dry his hands. He comes back to stand in front of her, arms crossed. He can't help flirting—besides the fact that it's just in his nature, Ziva seems to be deliberately trying to bait him. "Is that because last time, I came and you didn't?"

"Perhaps. You might try correcting your mistake, yes?"

Tony can see two paths here: he can either give in to what he really wants to do and show her that he doesn't just talk a big game, or he can laugh it off now and keep their relationship as close to professional as possible. A stronger man might take the second option, but Tony thinks that man probably hasn't seen Ziva naked. The choice, it seems, is clear.

He leans toward her until he can feel her breath on his face, and lands his hands flat on the countertop on either side of her. "You sure that's what you want?" he asks, his voice low and rough. "Once I do, you're in danger of being disappointed by anyone who comes after me."

"Careful, Tony. You are doing dangerous things to my expectations." The look on her face says that she doubts he can pull it off, and the challenge there is enough to make him lean in and kiss her. This time, it's much softer than last time—a promise of things to come.

A risky promise.

Ziva responds immediately, and while their lips move together, one of Tony's hands travels to Ziva's thigh. Her skin is soft and warm, and he suddenly processes what exactly it means that she's wearing a skirt right now. He has easy access.

He slides his hand up and down the outside of her thigh, pushing her skirt up little by little as he does, and judging by the little shifts and noises Ziva's making, he's pretty sure she likes it. She starts to kiss him harder, and he pulls his hands and lips away at the same time. "No," he says, his voice quiet but commanding. "This time, I lead."

Ziva's eyes darken and she nods once—she is almost always the one in charge, and it intrigues her to relinquish that to someone that she knows she trusts.

Her clear interest in the idea goes straight to Tony's crotch, and he takes one step back. "Here are the rules," he tells her. "You don't get to touch me until I say so, okay? You sit where I put you and you stay there. Got it?"

"I understand."

"Excellent." He grins at her again. "In that case…" He steps forward again and places a hand just inside her knee, starting to stroke. "I did notice that you finished your burger at dinner," he says conversationally. "I suppose that means you've earned a reward."

"I do believe I have," Ziva agrees, her voice equal parts entertained and turned on.

"Good. Then spread your legs." He helps with this, gently pushing on her thighs until they're far enough apart for his liking. Then he slides his hand inward once more, this time moving further than before. When he meets no fabric resistance, he has to laugh. "Ziva David!" he says in disbelief. "You planned this!" On the tips of his fingers, he can feel damp curls, and he begins to touch more deliberately, avoiding places he knows she aches to be touched.

Her head falls back and she bites her lip. "Perhaps I did." Tony notes with considerable satisfaction that she already seems to be having a little difficulty speaking.

"Naughty girl," he murmurs, and makes his first pass over her clit. He hears her gasp and does it again. "I suppose you've been lusting after me ever since you took the desk across from mine?"

"Do not—ah." She inhales sharply as he brushes against a particularly sensitive spot. "Do not flatter yourself, Tony," she disagrees, but she doesn't seem to be paying too much attention to the conversation.

"Don't lie to me, Ziva." He teases her opening with two fingers, still occasionally swiping her clit with his thumb. "I can just picture you laying in bed, touching yourself and thinking about me." It may be his imagination, but he thinks she gets a little wetter at his words.

"I admit to nothing."

"Mm, you don't have to admit it for me to know it's true," Tony says, and eases those to fingers in. She bucks her hips in his direction with a suddenness that surprises both of them, and Tony immediately and regretfully pulls his hand away. Ziva's eyes pop open and she glares at him. "I said not to move," he reminds her, smirking.

Ziva mutters something in Hebrew and then lets out a snort of air. "Fine," she says shortly. "I will not do it again."

Tony looks at her face to make sure she's just sexually frustrated, not actually angry at him, before going closer. "Good girl," he purrs, and puts his hand right back to where it was before. That draws an immediate moan from Ziva, and he starts to pump those fingers in and out.

"Tony!" she groans.

He allows himself a moment to gloat before issuing his next command. "Alright, little assassin, I have a job for you. I'd like to see those beautiful breasts of yours, so how about you take off your shirt and your bra?"

Without answering—and without stopping the noises she's making, either—Ziva hastens to comply. Tony likes the sweater she was wearing, but he likes her even better without it. Her bra carelessly lands in the floor behind him, and he doesn't hesitate to put his free hand on the newly revealed skin. He palms one of her breasts for a moment and then tweaks the nipple between his forefinger and thumb. Ziva gasps and he does it again, feeling very smug. Down where his right hand is working, she just keeps getting wetter and wetter.

What can he say? He's an excellent multitasker.

The hand on her breast gets replaced by his mouth, and the timbre of her noises starts to change. He knows she's getting close, and he's more than happy to get her all the way there.

He focuses in on her clit again and adds a third finger. Working on keeping his rhythm steady, he pulls his lips off of her nipple with a pop—replacing his mouth immediately with his hand again—to whisper in her ear. Returning the favor from a few weeks ago, he parrots her words and orders "do it."

She cries out louder than before and clenches around his fingers over and over again. She's moving her hips against his instructions, but he figures that this time, she can be forgiven for it. He helps her ride out her orgasm until she's spent and then withdraws his hands. "Tony," she breathes, looking especially lovely with her cheeks flushed and her mouth open as she catches her breath.

"Yes, Ziva?" he answers slowly, smugly.

"I would like for you to fuck me."

If there was anything in particular that he expected her to say, it wasn't that, and he groans, her coarse language turning him on further. "Happy to," he agrees, his voice gravelly. He slides his hands underneath her and with a grunt, he lifts her off the counter.

He puts her down on the now clean kitchen table and she immediately leans back on her elbows, looking up at him with hooded eyes. Now almost painfully aroused, he fumbles with his belt buckle and shoves his pants to the floor, kicking them away.

Ziva surprises him by holding out a condom—he wonders where she was hiding that—and he gets it on as quickly as possible. He positions himself at her entrance, looking at her for confirmation that she's ready, and she nods firmly. That's all the encouragement he needs and he sheathes himself quickly. They groan in unison, and he starts to work. This is nothing fancy, no-frills—just the release they're both aching for.

Ziva, already very sensitive from Tony's ministrations a few minutes ago, quickly finds herself approaching a second orgasm. Her skirt is bunched around her waist and she impatiently moves it out of the way to slide her hand between her legs. She starts to rub herself as Tony thrusts, and within the minute, she's coming again.

Tony helplessly follows shortly after and he has to lean forward, hands on the table to support himself in order to keep from collapsing right on top of her. He pulls out once he can, and moves off so Ziva can sit up.

"What do you think? Mistake corrected?" His usual bravado is marred a little by his breathlessness, and Ziva laughs.

"I must admit that your… confidence… is not entirely without base," she says, and Tony can feel his the size of his head double. He grins widely at her.

Offering a hand to help her down from the table (though he knows she doesn't need any assistance), he watches as the pink flush slowly leaves her cheeks. She is beautiful, he thinks, and he's suddenly got the urge to see what her caramel skin looks like when it's wet. "D'you need a shower?" he asks before he can talk himself out of it. "I know I do."

Ziva looks at him speculatively but smiles. "A shower, yes, but I do not know if I have round three in me tonight."

Laughing, he shakes his head. "I promise to keep my hands to myself."

He's not sure why this is something he wants to do, because it's an unusually intimate thing to do with a one-night stand—that is, shower without shower sex. A one-night stand isn't quite the right definition for whatever this thing with Ziva is anyway, but he doesn't know what else to call it. In fact, he isn't sure what he wants it to be. For her, he assumes it's just sex she's after. She's a very modern woman, self-assured and sexually liberated. He won't make the mistake of thinking that he's the one that started all of this—he has a feeling that if Ziva didn't seek it out, it might never have happened.

As per usual, Gibbs is working on the boat in his basement when he hears someone coming down the steps late that night. "What's on your mind, Ziver?" he asks without looking up.

She doesn't answer immediately, instead crossing to the workbench with light, silent steps and settling herself on Gibbs' spare stool. He doesn't prompt her again—he knows that when she's ready, she'll speak.

"I know that you have a rule against it," she finally says, her voice unusually hesitant, "but I am sleeping with Tony."

Gibbs raises his eyebrows but still doesn't look at her, continuing to sand the wood that's slowly becoming the Kelly. "If you know I'm against it, why tell me at all?"

"Because I know that you value honesty," she answers immediately, and he has to quirk his lips up in a half-smile at that. She is, of course, absolutely correct.

He doesn't answer for one minute, two minutes, and then he finally looks at her, setting his tools aside. "I already knew," he tells her, and by the look on her face, she's not surprised by it.

"Are you angry?" she wants to know.

"I don't know," he tells her, standing up to pour them each some bourbon. "Is it going to become a problem?"

"I cannot speak for Tony, but it will not be a problem for me."

"I didn't mean for the two of you. Is it going to be a problem for me?" He gives her a pointed look as he hands over the mason jar containing the drink he's poured for her.

She snorts. "What is it that you think will be a problem for you?" She borrows both his emphasis and his expression.

"Hm. Will there be PDA in the office? One of you taking stupid risks in the field trying to protect the other? If it ends badly, can you still work together?"

These, at least, are easy to answer, Ziva thinks with relief. "No PDA. It will not end badly because it is just sex. As for stupid risks…" She gives him a look. "I will protect Tony because he is my partner, just the same as I will protect you and McGee because you are my team." Her Mossad training would hardly let her do otherwise.

Gibbs gives her a searching look before taking a long sip of his bourbon. "Okay," he says finally, and sets the jar aside to get back to work.

Seeing this as the dismissal that it is, Ziva finishes her drink and heads for the stairs. She pauses at the top, though, looking back down at her boss. "Gibbs?"

"Mm?" He stops to glance up at her.

"How did you know?"

At this, she gets a rare genuine smile. "DiNozzo's been giving you moon eyes since you joined the team. Two weeks ago, you started making moon eyes back."

With that, he goes back to his work, leaving Ziva to ponder what exactly he means by that as she leaves.