A/N: This chapter is set after "Boxed In". I would like to apologize in advance to anyone who speaks Hebrew, because I certainly don't and I'm getting all of my occasional translations from Google!
The fourth time they "sleep together", it's just sleeping, and there's something wonderful about that, too.
Despite playing it off as a joke, Tony is mildly offended that Ziva apparently had a full team dinner party—minus him. He spends more time stewing it over than he should while they're trapped in the shipping container, and he finds that his heart isn't really in the bickering that he's always doing with Ziva. He focuses on helping get them out without getting killed, but once that's through, he's a little preoccupied.
He's mollified by her offer to have him over for tonight's dinner, though, and he's genuinely interested in watching her cook. In his head, he tallies up the score—this will be the third meal provided by Ziva, whereas he has only provided one. Clearly, he needs to step it up.
He follows her home again; he can feel his face heat up slightly as he steps out of his car, remembering exactly what happened the last time he did that here.
Up in her apartment, he settles in comfortably where he can see her in the kitchen and watches as she pulls ingredients out of her fridge.
"What are you planning to make?" he asks curiously.
"Eggplant parmesan rollatini," she answers promptly.
"Eggplant? What is it with you and vegetables, David?"
She throws her head back and laughs. "You are the only one who seems to have a problem with them, Tony. They are good for you."
"Trying to make me eat healthier… what are you doing, making up for the fact that I wasn't properly mothered as a child?" he retorts sarcastically.
"I am merely trying to ensure that you do not die of scurvy, but if you were 'not properly mothered', that certainly explains a few things." He makes a face at her and she laughs again. "I do not think you would want me as your mother."
Tony shudders, remembering what they did the last time he was here, and shoves thoughts of his mother far away. "Right you are," he agrees. He watches as she pauses her prep work to pull out two glasses and offer him some wine. Accepting it with a smile, he goes to lean against the counter next to her.
"There was a spill," she offers up, apropos of nothing.
"A spill?" he repeats in confusion.
"Last night. Tim knocked over Abby's glass and got wine on the carpet."
Suddenly, Tony understands why she's sharing this. "Oh! That explains the—"
"—the carpet burns, yes. I was attempting to save the security deposit paid on my behalf."
Tony chuckles. "McClumsy nearly messed that one up for you, didn't he?"
"He came close to it." She glances up at him, smirking. "Earlier, when you were asking about my knees… I know you have an overactive imagination. Were you imagining things that made you jealous?"
"I admit to nothing," he says in a lofty voice. "Hey, did you see that? He just kissed her on the neck!" The quote from Cactus Flower serves as the shield he often likes to use while uncomfortable.
Ziva isn't quite ready to let it go, amused. "Did you think I hosted an orgy here last night? With McGee? Ducky? Gibbs?"
"Ew, Ziva!" he protests. "No, I didn't think anything. I was just wondering."
"Sure," she replies, smiling smugly.
He elbows her lightly, noting with satisfaction that the move throws her knife slightly off of its path and results in a wider than intended chunk of eggplant. "That piece will be yours," Ziva informs him.
"That's fine with me, as long as you don't poison it."
"If you believe that poison is the way I would murder you, Tony, you clearly have not learned enough about me." She holds up the knife threateningly to emphasize her point, but rather than making her ninja assassin Mossad face, she's wrinkling her nose.
Tony knows she could kill him with ease if she wanted to, but right now, he really can't take her seriously. Feeling the urge to antagonize her a little, he puts aside his wine glass and leans in her direction, leering. "I dunno. Poison is more of a woman's weapon, isn't it? And you, my dear, are a dainty little woman."
With almost impossible-seeming speed, Ziva twists Tony's arm behind his back and pushes him face down onto the counter, holding her knife at his throat with her other hand. "Dainty, did you say?" she asks conversationally.
"Jeez, Ziva, you could at least get in a little foreplay before you tie me up like this," Tony grunts against the counter top, and he sighs in relief when she lets him go. Shaking his head, he straightens up. "Okay, so as you so kindly demonstrated again, you're very strong, very deadly, and not dainty at all. Understood." His tone is sarcastic and annoyed, but Ziva thinks he doesn't look angry at all. In fact, he seems to be fighting off a smile.
She smirks and chucks him lightly under the chin. "Now you get it."
She then goes back to her cooking and he considers her for a moment. "How would you kill me, if you had to?"
"That depends," she answers as she works. "There are many variables. Why do I have to kill you? Are you my enemy? Do you have a hostage? Are you dying and I want to kill you humanely so you will no longer suffer? Are we here in my kitchen? Does anyone know that you are here? Do I need to make it look like an accident, or a suicide, or does it not matter? Do you—"
Tony cuts her off, laughing. "I have a feeling you could go on all night, so I'll just stop you right there. Let's say we're right here, right now. The whole team knows I'm here. I don't have any hostages or terminal illnesses or fatal wounds or anything, and you're killing me because…" He pauses to think about it and then grins in a self-congratulatory kind of way as if he's solved a complex puzzle. "You're killing me because I just insulted you by calling you dainty."
It works and Ziva chuckles. She sets her knife and cutting board aside and walks around him a few times, evaluating. "I think that if I killed you now, I would stage a kidnapping. That is the simplest way to make sure the team does not suspect me. I would probably use something I had close at hand as the weapon, but it would not be this knife because blood is very difficult to thoroughly clean off—this knife is part of a set, and I would either have to risk someone finding trace evidence of blood on it or discard it discreetly somewhere far away. Someone might notice I had a knife missing from the block." She pulls open the drawer in front of her and brings out a corkscrew.
"I might use something like this instead," she continues. "If I stabbed you with it here—" She taps it gently against his flank, right under his ribs on the right side. "—I would fatally wound your kidney and renal artery, but you would bleed internally and not all over my kitchen so long as I kept the corkscrew in. I would then discreetly contact someone who owes me a favor and ask them to hack into the building's security system to take out the hallway, elevator, and back entrance cameras. Then I could remove your body easily, barring any witnesses, and I could then move you to a location of my choosing. I would have to return to my apartment relatively quickly in order to fake signs of a struggle, and I would also probably have to incapacitate myself in some way. Injecting myself with a sedative would probably be the easiest method. That way, not only would I move suspicion away from myself, but I would also have the investigators searching for a kidnapping victim instead of a body."
"Remind me not to mess with you, Ziva," Tony replies, impressed, once she finishes. "You came up with all of that on the fly?"
"On the what?" Ziva asks, momentarily distracted.
"You know, on the fly—on the spot. Spur of the moment. Without prior planning."
"Oh. Well, not exactly. I have been trained to think like this. Even before I joined Mossad, I grew up in an unstable environment—life in the Middle East is not always simple." Her expression melts into an unhappy one.
He nods, understanding intuitively that it's not something she really wants to talk about at length just now. With that in mind, he deliberately moves the conversation in another direction. "It's kind of sexy," he remarks.
"What is?"
"You being all… murdery."
Ziva lets out a disbelieving laugh. "I do not believe you are entirely right in the head, Tony."
"That may be so, but come on. Assassin-in-leather Ziva? Dominatrix Ziva? I would pay good money to see that." He's teasing again, pulling her out of her head. He steps up behind her and nuzzles his nose into the side of her neck.
"Tony DiNozzo, that is not what I invited you here for tonight!" she protests, but he can see the secret smile on her face.
He kisses her neck very lightly, making her shudder, and steps away.
"Then cook away, Ziva David."
The next day is Tim's birthday, and after a relatively uneventful but long day of work, he, Abby, Ziva, and Tony gather in front of the NCIS building to get ready to leave. They're planning to go to a club—Tony's idea, though it didn't take much effort to convince the others.
Planning to drink and drink a lot, they leave their cars in NCIS employee parking and share a cab to a nearby club that's popular with Naval sailors. It's still early yet, so they park themselves at the bar and start working on the hangovers they're all certain to have tomorrow.
Several drinks later, Abby can't sit still on her barstool, moving in time with the music that's slowly increasing in volume the later it gets. Correctly deducing that she wants to dance, Ziva leans in to make sure her friend can hear. "Come on, Abby! We should go to the dance floor."
"Yes, we should!" Abby agrees enthusiastically. "D'you like to dance? We've never gone dancing together! We really should. Kate and I used to go to the spa together, but you and I need our own thing. It could be dancing."
Ziva is amused to find that tipsy Abby is even chattier than normal Abby, and she leads the forensic scientist toward the dance floor instead of answering, laughing.
Tim and Tony watch them go. "Not interested in dancing, McBirthday Boy?" Tony asks as they turn back to their drinks.
Tim smiles ruefully and shakes his head. "I need a few more drinks in me for that," he answers, holding up his still mostly-full glass.
"I can't say I'm ready to jump on out there, either," Tony replies.
"Really?" Tim retorts, looking doubtful. "You? This kind of dancing isn't much more than sex with clothes on, and as you love to remind us, that's something you do a lot of."
"Well, yes, but…" Tony lifts a hand to scratch awkwardly at the back of his head, regretting replying to Tim at all. "It makes me feel old these days." He glances back out to the dance floor, smiling slightly when he spots Ziva and Abby doing some kind of silly move and laughing at one another, ignoring everyone around them. "So many of the people dancing out there are—oh god, probably close to twenty years younger than me."
"Wouldn't think that would bother you, Tony." McGee is amused and he doesn't bother to hide it. "This is coming from the same guy who openly lusts after any woman with a pulse, and I've specifically heard you mention co-eds at least a dozen times. You may be older than they are, but you've never let that stop you before."
"Come off it, McGee. I'm not saying I couldn't pick up half the girls dancing out there, but… this wouldn't be the best place to do it." He winces slightly. "I'm not sure I can move like that for much longer."
Tim considers him for a moment and then laughs. "You know what? You're right. You are getting old."
"I didn't say I was getting old, McToddler! I said I felt old!" Tony growls. "DiNozzos don't get old. We're like really fine Italian wine."
"So you get more expensive and snooty the more you age?"
"Snooty? The word you're looking for is classy, McGee. I know it's not a term you're familiar with."
Tim snorts. "Sure, Tony. Whatever you say."
Tony raises his glass. "To fine Italian wine!"
"To annoying coworkers," Tim agrees, and they clink their glasses together.
He observes silently as Tony drains the rest of his glass and turns back in the direction of the dance floor; DiNozzo stares at the sweaty mass of people with an indecipherable look on his face. Tim can't help but notice that the whole time, his teammate's eyes are locked on the Mossad liaison officer.
Three more drinks later, Tony is certifiably buzzed, bordering on wasted, and he decides that it's finally time to dance. He'll almost certainly regret it tomorrow when his back aches and his head throbs, but for now… there's a certain captivating Middle Eastern ninja-warrior-assassin-agent beauty that he'd really like to move with.
He finishes his most recent glass and makes his way to the dance floor. Ziva is dancing alone with her eyes closed, her hips moving in the most tantalizing way. A few feet away, McGee and Abby are doing something that looks suspiciously like a waltz, and Tony's delighted to note that Abby is clearly leading. The two seem to be having a good time despite dancing in a style that doesn't fit the music, so he leaves them to it… he makes a note to tease McGee about it later, though, as he brushes past them to approach Ziva.
"Tony," he hears her say. Just as he gets to her, she opens her eyes and smiles at him, still dancing. "I wondered when you would get out here," she finishes loudly.
"How'd you know it was me?" He has to almost shout so she can hear him.
"I am always aware of my surroundings."
He comes closer and swallows hard as he sees Ziva's expression change—she looks almost hungry. That—alongside the alcohol he's consumed—gives him the confidence to put his hands on her hips just as he's wanted to all night. She doesn't protest.
The music transitions from a song with a fast beat to a song with a slower one and Tony and Ziva start to move. Their eyes stay locked together and their hips sway sensuously in time with the music. Neither of them can spare a thought to anyone else around them, not the least of whom is a certain Abby Sciuto who's watching with shrewd speculation.
After a time, Ziva's hand winds around to rest on the back of Tony's neck, pulling his head down toward hers, and though she intends to kiss him, she doesn't immediately do it. She's caught instead by the look on his face; there she sees conflict, part longing, part arousal, and part something less positive that she cannot identify. The last part frightens her slightly, though she can't say why. Pushing past her hesitation, she does kiss him, hard enough to hopefully knock them both out of the path of whatever dark cloud might be hovering above them.
It works and the mood slowly grows more pleasurable between them. Song after song, they dance closer and closer together and gravitate to a more secluded corner of the dance floor, away from most of the other dancers. Tony leans down and pulls Ziva's earlobe gently between his teeth before letting go and whispering "let's get out of here."
Ziva's been thinking the same thing, and she nods.
Tony grabs her hand and starts to lead her out of the club; they pass McGee and Abby on the dance floor, but Tony doesn't even notice in his newfound determined single-mindedness. Ziva does, though, and she waves and calls out "happy birthday, McGee!" as they go. They head out front, hop in a cab, and they're gone.
Back inside, McGee and Abby exchange glances, and he leans down to talk in her ear so he won't have to yell too much over the music. "Did Tony and Ziva just leave together?" he demands.
"I think so!" Abby shouts in agreement. "You know what that means!"
"Yeah, it means they're finally together."
"Maybe not. It means they're finally sleeping together."
Tony and Ziva stumble through the front door of Tony's apartment, laughing uproariously at something that probably isn't actually funny. They're equal parts drunk and silly tonight.
In following the normal getting-home process, Tony gets stuck in his jacket while taking it off and Ziva nearly falls flat on the floor trying to remove her shoe. They both end up sitting in the entryway, side-by-side.
"I am hungry," Ziva announces, poking Tony with the toes of her sock-clad foot.
"Sorry, Diva. I mean, Ziva. No vegetables here!" He giggles. "Diva Ziva!"
She nudges him again but it turns out to be more of a kick. "Hey!" he complains. "I'm sorry, I didn't know you'd be coming over or I would have bought some—some flaulicower or something. I mean cauliflower or something."
"I do not want yerakot. I want…" she trails off, thinking.
When the pause becomes too long, Tony pats her on the top of the head. "Very Special Agent Tony DiNozzo does not speak Hebrew, little Hebrew lady, so if you want something, you have to say it in English."
"Pizza," she decides, punctuating this announcement with a hiccup. "I want pizza. Do you have pizza?"
"I do have pizza!" Tony cries in great triumph and stands, nearly toppling back over in his drunken enthusiasm. "To the pizza freezer!" He helps Ziva up and they go to dig for frozen treats.
Half an hour later, they're settled into Tony's bed, sharing a plate piled haphazardly with pizza slices cut with Ziva's pocket knife. Tony, feeling wonderfully dizzy, is using the remote for his bedroom TV set to find a movie for them to watch. Ziva is hardly a movie buff, and it seems of vital importance to his alcohol-saturated brain to introduce her to some of the classics.
He keeps losing his train of thought in the middle of his searching, though, and he can't decide just what to show her. Ziva, impatient, tries to wrestle the remote away from him. Thanks to the pizza grease on her fingers, she doesn't succeed, and Tony holds the remote up above her head so she can't reach it anymore. "Just choose something!" she insists through a mouth full of cheese and bread, making Tony laugh.
"Patience you must have, my young padawan!" he explains in his best Yoda voice.
"Oh, I know that one! That is from… Star Trek, yes?"
"How dare you, David!? It's from Star Wars! Wars, not Trek! No jedi movies in Israel?"
"We has those, but I was not one to sit and watch films." She was busy doing other things as a young person—her Mossad training started very early.
"That's it," Tony declares. "We're watching it right now."
As it turns out, they do watch most of A New Hope, but it's hardly a serious and focused viewing. They spend most of the time making fun of one another, giggling, and finishing their pizza.
Tony falls asleep first, his arm resting comfortably around Ziva's shoulders. There's still half an hour left in the movie and Ziva makes it to the end credits, but she has long since stopped paying attention to the storyline. Instead, her unfocused musings keep drifting away from jedis and lightsabers and toward the warm feeling of Tony's breath on her hair. The weight of his arm across her upper back also features prominently in her thoughts, as does the way the scents of the liquor and pizza he's consumed mingle with his usual cologne. Ziva feels safe here, she realizes, and it feels very right to be in such close proximity to her friend and partner. She's too tipsy to dig too deeply into the feeling, but it leaves her dizzy and content—or at least the rum does.
When she joins Tony in sleep, it's with her head against his chest and her arm draped across his middle. Under the covers, their feet are tangled together. For once, what is shared between them is innocent, warm, and badly needed by both, even if they won't admit it.