Okay, so I'm not sure if this chapter really works but here it is...

2. Ziva

Tony likes calling her by her name.

McGee has a nickname for every day of the year, Gibbs is boss, Abby is Abs, Palmer's the autopsy gremlin, and Ducky… well, that's obvious. But he feels no real need to give Ziva one most of the time, not because she isn't one of them, she is, she proved that quickly enough. The truth is, he just really likes her name, likes the way it sounds. Ziva, Ziva, Ziva. Could be because it's an exotic splash of colour in his mostly red, white, and blue American world; if you asked Ducky he would probably be able to pinpoint the exact psychological reason why Tony's so fascinated with her name but he's content living with his own particular brand of insanity; keeping up the riddle, wrapped in a mystery, inside an enigma nature of Ziva's name.

Ziva…

It's standard ground, neutral.

It's what he calls her first thing in the morning when he's jonesing for a coffee because of course he'd been running late then some jackass had to go and crash into a pole, shutting down an entire block for the rest of the day, meaning Tony didn't have time to stop at the only halfway decent coffee shop within a ten mile radius unless he wanted to be an hour and a half late and you are listening to me, aren't you Ziva? She diligently types away at her computer, blatantly ignoring his whining, as she takes a smug sip from the cup sitting on her desk.

"Oh, I am sorry," she says sweetly, noticing his pained grimace and holding the cup out to him, "would you like a sip?"

There's probably some sort of catch, there always is with her, but he's way too desperate to consider the consequences; she'd just drank some herself so at least he knows that it isn't poisoned, not unless she's far more committed to screwing with him than he thought. He takes the cup from her and tips it up, expecting the much needed hit of caffeine, what he gets instead is… nothing, not even the dregs.

He's pretty sure he actually lets out a whine, like a dog that's just had its tail stepped on. "You're a sick chick, Ziva, a very, very sick chick."

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It's what he yells helplessly into the ether when her driving exceeds what he deems an acceptable speed (and he isn't exactly McNanny himself when it comes to driving), as he clutches the oh shit handle with all his might and tries not to weep, internally reciting the Hail Mary just in case someone up there can hear him (it's times like this he notices just how manic her teeth- baring smile looks).

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It's what he grits out when he's trying to be professional and she's standing there with innocent brown eyes, a hat with a hole in the bill, and an irritatingly straight face as she mangles any and all idioms that come out her mouth, no matter how freakin' serious the situation is and he just knows she does it on purpose. (We're tryin' to interview the grieving widow here, Ziva, mind not giving the impression that NCIS is in the habit of hiring crazy Mossad assassins who can't even say porcupine right?)

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It's what he says as he whips out the grey one size fits all lederhosen he'd impulsively bought for her in the Düsseldorf airport and if his subordinates dare to question just why he decided that was an appropriate gift to buy then he'll tell them it's an inside joke between him and the little Israeli that they absolutely do not need to know the punchline to.

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It's what he calls her when she coats the eye sockets of his binoculars in black polish because you know I'll have to get you back for this, right?

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It's what he sing-songs as he looks up from the report he's been so intently working on for the last three hours only to see his partner fast asleep at her desk, her face smushed against her keyboard. She gives a low, grunting snore in response, not bothering to crack open an eyelid.

He smiles and does a silent version of the evil laugh (mwah hah hah hah hah) as he steeples his fingers (eeexcellent), his mind kicking into high gear. He takes his time debating the perfect way to wake her, aiming for equal parts funny and terrifying. He could sneak up behind her except she's commented on his lack of stealth so many times that she's lucky he's got a strong ego or else her insults might actually bother him. He could go with the rubber band or paper ball except it's been done how many times now (albeit usually to McGee… in Tony's experience, it works every time). He could handcuff her to her chair or her desk with the fuzzy, non standard issue handcuffs he's got in the bottom drawer of his desk (a very thoughtful gift he'd received during last year's Secret Santa; he never did find out just who was responsible, he's still not fully convinced that it wasn't Ziva despite her insistence that, 'for the last time, I did not take part in the Secret Santa, Tony, I do not celebrate Christmas') except she'd probably be out of them before he could so much as snap a picture, not only making his efforts useless but also resulting in her asking him many, many questions, enjoying every second of his squirming embarrassment.

In the end he takes too long in deciding because McGee, fresh from a nap on Abby's futon, rounds the corner with clomping steps and does it for him.

When she sits up, Tony can't help but smile, all disappointment at his ruined opportunity fading fast. He's not sure what's more endearing - the slight kicked puppy, pouting expression on her face, the messy bird's nest of tangled curls and the smeared makeup around her eyes making her look like the love child of Dolly Parton and a panda, or the fact that her cheek bares the battle scars from her hard-earned nap - several red marks creasing her skin in the distinct pattern of the up, down, left, and right keys and he doesn't think he's ever seen something so adorable; in that moment, if you'd told him she was an overworked, rundown pre-school teacher he would definitely have believed you.

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It's what he shouts in a drunken greeting as her pyjama clad form enters the dingy bar he's been sitting in since leaving work that afternoon (not the sexy lingerie style pyjamas he frequently imagines her in… not usual bar attire either but he can make it work, she looks sexy in that comfortable, relaxed, stay at home kind of way). He's been here every night since Jenny died but tonight was different, rather than self-pityingly nursing two or three pints for four hours, he'd immediately started with a double scotch on the rocks and only progressed from there, each order thereafter placed in an accent that sounding increasingly Connery-sounding the longer the night went on. The day after tomorrow he ships out to the USS Ronald Reagan to begin his months long stint as agent afloat, he figured he might as well enjoy his remaining time on dry land.

She ignores him, immediately striding over to the bartender, placing a few scrunched-up bills in his hand and muttering out a 'thanks for looking after him'. Tony's cop skills (no matter how alcohol impaired they are) tell him that he's the him in question but why she thinks he would need looking after, he doesn't know. It doesn't matter because once she takes him by the arm and guides him out of the mostly empty bar, she's the only thing he can concentrate on.

"So," he slurs, stumbling over a chair leg, "where we goin'? Your place or mine?" Her hands are all over him in an attempt to keep them both upright; they stagger from side to side like a lopsided four legged creature, his shoulder smacks off the door frame and her elbow accidentally slams into his gut. They stumble out into the night, her arm hooking itself around his waist to stop him from tripping over the sidewalk. "Hey, you wanna grope me, you could at least buy me a drink first," he says with a drunken laugh.

"Maybe if you'd called me earlier, I would have," she says, propping his body up against her car and rummaging around in pocket for her keys. In the silence of the dark street he starts up a rousing rendition of Dream On (his voice cracking every which way on the power note), his mind telling him that silence is bad, silence gives him time to think and the whole point of tonight was to not think at all. He's a bit more sober thanks to the fresh air but he barely feels it when his head connects with the door frame, the rag-doll effect in full force. (He wouldn't be surprised if she did it on purpose to shut him up, nor would he really blame her to be honest.)

She slides into the driver's seat and look over at him before starting the car. Her eyes are dark, twin pools of chocolate. He likes chocolate, almost as much as he likes her eyes, and her lips – pink and kissable, her hair, and her body, small and lithe and, at first glance, unassuming (as someone who's seen beneath the layers of clothing, he'll never make that mistake again), nope, he definitely can't forget about her body, he loves that too. Her curly hair and her honey skin, the way she swings her hips as she walks. Mmmm…

"You are staring," she says. He really hopes he's not drooling.

She's gorgeous.

"You're gorgeous," he says, because for some insane reason he thinks it's something he should probably put out there.

"Thank you," she says as she starts the car, he doesn't have to be sober to recognise the tone of her voice - secretly pleased but trying to keep up the pretence of aloofness, he's not fooled, "but you are drunk."

"Doesn't mean it's not true."

"You will not remember this conversation in the morning."

He grins, wide and blissful. "Pro'ly not," he agrees.

"You should stop talking then."

"Pro'ly," he agrees (he'd agree to rob a band, commit murder, admit to a murder she committed, if she asked him to), his head thumping back against the headrest, the soft sound of melodic Hebrew singing from the radio lulling him to sleep.

The next thing he's aware of, he's waking up on his couch, a sticky note stuck to his forehead ('there is Advil on the counter, I recommend trying jasmine tea with lime, do not push it until you have tried it') and a glass of water sitting on his coffee table. He debates calling her for all of three seconds before he remembers that today's the day she's due to fly back to Israel. He checks his watch and winces when he sees that it's already into the afternoon, she'll be in the air right about now. He flops back onto the sofa, head aching and feeling lonelier than ever.

Months later when he finally lays eyes on her again, she looks better than ever and the sexual tension's at an all time high. They solve the case with their usual bickering couple routine and upon his return home as they stand in the squad room with McGee and Abby, she's right next to him, patting his shoulder and looking at him in a way that makes him think that maybe she's missed him just as much as he's missed her.

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It's what he whispers as he takes her as gently as he can by the arm, lifting her out of the chair as she stares blankly at the dead terrorist on the floor, pooling blood mixing with spilled Caf-Pow in what he thinks should be a highly symbolic scene but his serum addled mind can't quite place why that is.

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It's what he says as he urges her to come on, to finally tell someone something about what happened. She looks anywhere but at him, intent on continuing their not-entirely approved warehouse search. He's tired of pretending and he'd bet everything he owns (okay, everything apart from the signed special edition of Casino Royale, that's probably worth a small fortune at this point) that she is too. The old Ziva wouldn't've thought twice about obfuscating (to use one of McGemcity's fancy writer words) the law, this Ziva seems to equate it to terrorism.

"What Saleem did was bad enough," she says definitively, "becoming like him would be worse." It isn't much, but it's more than he had before and it's likely all he's gonna get.

Weeks later they interview Kaylen Burrows and he learns a lot more than he wanted to - her face and voice as she talks with the woman across the table from her telling him everything he didn't need to know. And as the probie witters on about why would you let someone get away with rape, Tony cringes in the background and wills him to shut up before someone gets hurt.

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It's what he breathes in utter relief as they find her, bound and gagged and bleeding on the floor of a sweltering barn, a barn far too similar to the Somalian cell, except this time he isn't the one holding her or helping her to her feet or checking to make sure that she's actually there, that honour goes to her sketchy boyfriend and the way CI-Ray says her names sounds all wrong to Tony's ears.

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It's what he calls her when he asks if she's quoting a movie, his eyes moving from the old pictures of him and his mom to Ziva's face and it's clear that something between them has shifted. Like tectonic plates. Except the result of this earthquake won't be widespread destruction and chaos. In fact, he's fairly sure this is an outcome he's going to like very much.

"No," she says, her expression exceptionally, unashamedly affectionate, "I quoted a book... that was made into a movie."

He remembers a similar conversation they'd had almost half a decade ago after he found a movies for morons book in her desk while he was snooping (incidentally he'd also found a notebook filled with Hebrew script, an ancient bottle of painkillers that had never been opened, a packet of the thick, aloe tissues that he knew he'd be stealing when allergy season rolled around, and a pair of sunglasses he'd never seen her wear). It feels like they've come full circle, that they've found a way to balance each other out. She's the pah. She zigs while he zags. She bobs and he weaves. She rocks when he rolls.

The term opposites attract comes to mind and for the first time in Tony's life, that doesn't sound like a bad thing.

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It's what he calls her as they work on crushing the spirit of a juvenile but dangerous hipster hacker and for the first time since Eli David was found slumped in his own blood, things feel easy and normal. They fly him to 'Cuba' and Tony spends the flight eating the snacks she bought him despite the turbulence messing with his stomach just to see her smile and roll her eyes at him. He manages to get an exhaled laugh out of her when he throws a gummy bear in the air and misses, the sticky sweet bouncing off his nose at his attempt to catch it like a trained seal. Eventually they turn it into a game, throwing snacks at each other and trying to catch them in their mouths, both of them completely ignoring the unconscious body of Ajay Khan sprawled on the floor. She has to dive to catch a malt ball that he'd thrown slightly off target, her small 'ha!' of success warming him from head to toe as she pops up victoriously.

He offers up a sarcastic round of applause, complete with a comment about her very talented mouth. He misses her return serve, the chocolate whizzing by his ear as lets out a not entirely sincere, "damn it".

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It's what he yells in a desperate warning even though there's nothing either of them can do about the car about to t-bone them.

The last thing he's aware of is the feel of her nails digging into the back of his hand and the image of her with a diamond ring sparkling on her finger (and is that wedding bells he hears, or is it just a car horn?).

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It's the name that causes a smile to spread across his face when it pops up on his screen, and he feels thoroughly like a thirteen year old with a crush as he reads her most recent message. He's booking a plane ticket to Tel Aviv before he knows what he's doing. Because this is it, isn't it? Despite their recent talks of friendship, they haven't been just friends for a while now; people who are just friends don't sit across from each other and discuss eloping, no matter how abstract the terms.

Count to a million, I'm on my way.

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It's what he murmurs against her wonderfully warm skin as they lie in their own little bubble in an Israeli farmhouse, knowing that this is more or less goodbye, but wiling, for once, to remain fully in the moment. She is beautiful and damaged and worthy of so much more than she thinks; he is wiped out and relieved and unsure of how to handle the situation. He settles for placing a kiss to her sweat slicked neck as she exhaustedly intertwines their hands - her right with his left. And for that single moment, everything in the universe is right.

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It's what runs through his head on a loop when Gibbs shocks them all with there were no survivors and again, years later, when he finds out that Ziva's dead and he's got an almost two year old daughter who looks so much like her it's almost painful (Tali becomes the youngest love of his life the minute she looks back at him with eyes that so closely resemble his own). As if some sort of ritual repetition of her name will bring her back to him like one of Abby's weird necromancy ceremonies or something. As if wishing on a happy little thought or clicking his heels three times and chanting that there's no place like home, would undo everything.

Both times she turns out to be alive and he can't help but wonder if his desperate little prayer had actually worked.

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In some instances though, Ziva just isn't enough to express… whatever it is that he wants to express. Whenever this is the case, his go-to is almost always Zee-vah, a little too much emphasis placed on the wrong syllable. Usually it's when he's just won whatever bet they've had going on, or when he's found irrefutable proof that he's right and she's wrong, or when he really wants to irritate her.

"I told you, Zee-vah, it's always the wife, now pay up," he says from his position opposite her, his feet up on the desk as he navigates a particularly tricky bing ball level. He doesn't quite manage to dodge the rubber band that she flicks in his direction. Soon bands are flying everywhere and he knows they're in for a world of pain from their boss when he comes back but Tony doesn't care as his most recently pinged band bounces right off her forehead.

"And that's a brilliant three pointer by DiNozzo," he crows in the style of an NBA commentator, pumping his fist in a goofy celebration. He shuts up a second later when she gets him dangerously close to his eye, letting out a triumphant whoop of her own.

He never does get the twenty bucks she owes him. He does, however, get a swift slap to the head when Gibbs gets back to see rubber bands scattered all over the floor and his two agents with red welts all over their face and arms, half-guilty, half-caught expressions on their faces, like two school kids being told off by the teacher. He has to force himself not to look in the direction of his partner in crime because if he does he knows he won't be able to stop himself from laughing.

"English, Zee-vah," he has to remind her as she downs another mojito and starts speaking every other sentence in a language no one else understands. It might've been annoying if it wasn't for the fact that hearing Ziva jump back and forth between languages like it's the most natural thing in the world seems to turn him into Gomez Addams. She glares and says something in Hebrew and he chooses to blames his quickening heartbeat on his own drunkenness.

"Come on, Zee-vah, that's mine," he whines when she steals his popcorn or his pizza or even his beer as they lounge in her living room watching whatever old movie he'd decided she absolutely had to see if she ever wanted to understand American culture. She just grins widely and steals another bite or sip as if she's never had a problem with his germs before, her expression just daring him to stop her. He mock-glares and pretends that he isn't happier than he's been since before Gibbs left.

A few years into their partnership, post agent afloat and Moroccan nightclub bombings, he notices that this draws small smiles and fondly rolled eyes as opposed to death glares and threats of paperclip attacks. Despite her claims of you get orders and you follow them she smiles more during this time, he likes to imagine he has something to do with that.

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There's a while, after Somalia, where he avoids calling her anything entirely.

For the first week or so after she comes back (as a visitor, which even he has to admit looks wrong) he tries to avoid talking to her at all. Strange, given that days ago she was standing next to him at the men's room's sink saying that you have had my back, that you have always had my back, and she was kissing him (his cheek, but you're damn right he's counting it) and he was totally unsure of where an appropriate place to put his hands was (he'd been so tempted to rest them on her hips, twisting his head so that her lips met his as opposed to his cheek). For some reason after couldn't live without you and you should not have come and okay, tried, couldn't and it is I who am sorry calling her Ziva seems both far too formal and far too informal at the same time. Tony, being Tony, reverts to not calling her anything at all. This seems to work perfectly fine for her because she doesn't call him anything either. Sometimes he looks up at the same time she does and their eyes lock and for those few, smouldering, seconds he feels like everything's in its right place again. Then she goes back to talking on the phone or writing in a leather-bound notebook and the moment's gone.

After Paris he never has any trouble knowing what to call her again.