From the minute I met Ziva, I knew she was out of my league. There was something about her walk, her voice, her air, that told the world there was no way a playboy like me was getting near her. She backed it up, too. A suspect tried to turn on the charm with her, she'd shut him down (while confusing the two idioms). I took it like a joke, like I was the only one allowed to act like that with her. I'd give them a teasing grin or a smart comment as they stared after her with a stupid look on their face.
I wanted her. I knew it, she knew it, the whole damn office knew. It wasn't anything surprising, I had a thing for most of the women who worked in, passed through, or breathed in the vicinity of my desk, but she was different. We became almost like friends, for a year, and that was close enough for both of us. Then things changed.
Gibbs went to Mexico. We all walked around like puppy dogs for days, too weak from the shock. Our boss was blown up, then he decided he was going to hitch a ride down to the ol' cantina with some grizzly bear of an ex-agent before he even had his memory back. I wasn't in the mood to play boss, and Jenny didn't push me. She was out of it too. But time marches on, and I had to get off my ass and do something.
Those few months, I grew up. I had a team of my own, a Probie to train (make that two) and a family to piece back together. That was when things changed between Ziva and me. I was the boss, and she was my senior field agent. We collaborated more, because we had more responsibility. We grew closer.
There were a few almost-dates, two almost-kisses. Both were interrupted by a call on my cell from dispatch. Both times, we ended up making awkward excuses to meet up at the office. Despite the discomfort we worked together better than ever. For once, we weren't two agents forced to pair each other, annoying the hell out of one another and begging to be separated like two schoolchildren. We were partners.
Then Gibbs came back.