Sorry for the delay on this rather fluffy, slightly cheesy chapter. A combination of internet problems and an inability to find the time or the right words. Give it two weeks and some change. I'll have my AP tests out of the way and a lot more time on my hands. Thanks anyways and sorry again. Feel free to review. It's much appreciated. Thanks to Beth and the others who pointed out my legal oversight in the first chapter. I'll just call it a little bit of creative license and hope that Vance was offering more of a strongly worded suggestion. Also, there's another Star Wars reference. This one's a classic. Bet you can spot it.
"When she's lying on my shoulder on the sofa in the dark, and about the time she falls asleep, so does my right arm. And I want so bad to move it, cause it's tingling and it's numb, but she looks so much like an angel that I don't want to wake her up. I live for little moments, when she steals my heart again and doesn't even know it. Yeah, I live for little moments like that." ~ Brad Paisley; Little Moments
Light, cold, clear, and sharp. A single bulb, illuminating an oasis in a sea of darkness, pooling on a table tucked away in the inky recesses of the living room. So much to do. So much information spread out before him, strewn across the table in shadowy, haphazard stacks of paper. So much to memorize, little details on which his life would depend. An entire lifetime of experiences, of trials and tribulations, all in one night. A lifetime of knowledge, of lessons learned, of friends lost and memories made. The memories…but no. He couldn't afford that, not now, not with so much at stake. He had to focus. Focus.
But the rain pounded on the roof and the thunder rolled, and all those memories, the sunny days and the stormy nights, came bubbling to the surface. He couldn't do it, simply couldn't bring himself to do it. How could he leave it all behind? How could he leave her behind? After all they'd been through, all the near misses and close shaves, everything they'd endured, sacrificed, and overcome together, how could he just walk away? He buried his face in his hands, massaging the bridge of his nose and trying to regain composure.
He didn't hear her walk in. He missed the silent tread of bare feet on hard wood and the tell-tale rustle of clothing that accompanied her arrival, something he'd always taken pains to identify but never could. He didn't see her standing there, one hand clutching the door frame, the other resting gently on her swollen belly. He couldn't know that, at that very moment, she read his thoughts like a book, deciphered his body language with an ease that could only come with years of close companionship. He couldn't know the depth of her understanding, just how much, in that instant, her heart and mind mirrored his own. He was, however, acutely aware, that his pain was hers. That knowledge killed him a little with every minute that passed.
For a moment that seemed like hours, she stood there. Just stood. Left him to his misery, as he grappled with his innermost demons and his most intimate inadequacies. She watched him drowning in a pool of his own misery until she could stand it no longer. She padded softly across the room, slipped her arms over the back of his chair, around his neck, and placed a gentle kiss on his cheek. Without looking up, he took one of her hands, enveloping it in his own. She brushed the curve of his neck with her lips and, her breath warm against his ear, whispered, "I have not seen you since we got home. All you have done is work; perhaps now is the time to relax. It is your last….I….I would very much like to spend some time with you tonight, Tony. Besides," she smiled half-heartedly and pecked his temple, "it would not due for you to be made on your first day because you had not slept properly."
He rose slowly, a lonely specter with weary eyes and a haggard visage. Her arms were still wrapped around his neck, their faces inches apart. A long, slow, deliberate kiss. His forehead rested on hers. Their eyes met, and in a few silent moments, they said more with a single, searching gaze than words could ever convey. She pulled him as close as her body would allow and nuzzled her head into the crook of his neck. He buried his face in her hair and inhaled. He tried to capture the scent, contain it, impress it upon his memory, so that, weeks from now, in a cold, lonely apartment miles across town, he might remember just how it felt to stand there in the dark, holding her in his arms, and breathe in her familiar spicy sweet aroma; how it felt to be totally consumed, lost in her embrace; how it felt to be home.
Her presence engulfed him, left him without direction, without rhyme, reason, or term to describe it. Speech deserted him, floundering and inarticulate. "I love you, Ziva." Though nothing he said could ever do the feeling justice, four truer words he had never uttered.
She relaxed, allowed herself to melt into him as she laced her fingers through his tousled hair. "I know."
He'd chosen the movie. It had seemed the natural thing to do, seeing as her taste ran somewhere between a body count seven stories high and films rated so R that they were almost X, neither of which seemed particularly appropriate at the moment. As usual, he didn't disappoint. It was a classic, a well worn favorite that they must have watched hundreds of times. She knew the words by heart, could recite every line from memory, and yet, without fail, every time the credits rolled and the screen faded to black, she found herself both misty eyed and strangely content.
The opening theme played and she settled back into Tony's chest. He lay on his side on the couch, the entire length of his body flush against her back, her head resting in the crook of his arm. His right hand intertwined with hers, fingers locked in their own private embrace, his left thumb rubbing soft, slow circles across the taut strip of smooth skin at her hip that his ill-fitting Ohio State sweatshirt left exposed.
Absorbed as he was with the woman before him, Tony didn't pay all that much attention to the movie. In fact, it caught him by surprise when, seemingly out of the blue, Ziva whispered, in perfect unison with the leggy blonde gracing the piano bench, "Play it again, Sam. For old time's sake."
The opportunity was too good to pass up. In a deep tenor, several notes off key, he crooned, "Just remember this: a kiss is still a kiss, a sigh is but a sigh, as time goes by."
Wrinkling her nose, she looked up at him for a long moment before pecking him on the lips. "Perhaps, my dear, we could leave the singing to Sam tonight."
The thunder rolled, and Ziva snored softly in his arms. Ilsa stared into Rick's eyes, shocked, disbelieving, and brimming with sorrow.
Tony watched her, unable to tear himself away from her pale face, framed with curls, eyes gently closed and lips puffy with sleep.
Rick steeled himself, concealed his throbbing heart and wretched soul with a mask of quiet acceptance, and returned her gaze. "If he gets on that plane and you're not with him, you'll regret it. Maybe not now, but soon, and for the rest of your life."
She smiled. Her lips parted ever so slightly and she snuggled into the warmth of his body. If he hadn't know better, Tony could have sworn that this warm, weightless, wonderful sensation seeping through his veins, that lifted him up and set him free was what it felt like to fall in love again. But that was impossible. Lightning crackled, a brilliant flash, then gone, as quickly as it had come.
Dark clouds gathered over Casablanca. In Washington D.C., a violent storm raged. In the confines of Tony's heart, however, the skies parted, and for the shortest of moments, a single beam of golden light parted the menacing, grey clouds above. He kissed the top of her head as she emitted another a long, low snore. All across the tempest tossed sky, lightning flashed and the thunder rolled.