A/N: I am ashamed of myself. This chapter is, for the most part, 'fluff' in its purest state. I don't think 'purest' is a word...but, just pretend it is. I'm sorry it's been such a long wait. This chapter fought be tooth and nail. Actually, that's pretty accurate, because I broke a nail halfway through, and I'm pretty sure Tony bit me. That's beside the point, though. I do not own Julie & Julia, The Untouchables, Turner Classic Movies (Which, for the record, I screwed that abbreviation about ten million times in chapter nine. I apologise for my mistake), Gene Kelly, Julia Child, AMC, or any other copyrighted person/film/piece of work I may have mentioned in the following chapter. Nor do I own NCIS, more specifically Special Agent Anthony DiNozzo. Bummer. Okay, go read. I'm done. Kat.

My eyes flutter open and I blink several times against the offending light that is shining through the windows. The only thing I can smell is cologne and leftover Indian food from the night before. Two arms are wrapped around me, my tea mug is set on the floor, and another movie is softly playing on the television. I can only imagine what this means.

I fell asleep with Anthony DiNozzo. I feel heat rush to my cheeks and grimace, hoping he cannot sense it. Shifting my weight, I start to get up from the couch in the least disruptive way possible, but as soon as I move a centimeter, Tony's arms tighten.

"Well, good morning, Sunshine," he murmurs. "Must say, I've always been scared of the thought of waking up to you for fear that you'd kill me…But this isn't too bad." My stomach turns over. He has been awake for far longer than I. As if in response to my thoughts, he adds, "I've been up since six. Was gonna make myself some coffee, but I didn't want to wake you up, so I just kinda sat here for a while."

I nod, still fighting off both grogginess and embarrassment, not to mention confusion. "What…what film are we watching now?"

"The Untouchables. Sean Connery, Kevin Costner, Andy Garcia. Great flick." He yawns into my hair and I expect him to have horrible morning breath. "Hey, I hope you didn't mind, but I finished off your green tea when I woke up …"

Ahh, that would be why his breath is fresh while not having brushed them. "It is fine. You are welcome to my tea whenever you want it."

I feel him chuckle beside me, the rumbling low in his body. "I will keep that in mind, Ana."

Sighing, I begin to ask why he is using our married fascia. "Are we using—" Tony cuts me off with a kiss below my ear.

"I would imagine married couples around the world use their spouses' first names, love." As in, we are using our disguises again until Gibbs tells us otherwise. Fabulous. With this knowledge, I know I am expected to follow suit, and I therefore rest my head in the crook of Tony's elbow. "You're looking gorgeous this morning, Miss Ana." He places a kiss in my hair, his face lingering as if smelling my shampoo. "And you smell very good."

I could say the same for you.

We have stayed put all morning on that couch watching movies, only moving twice: once when I had to use the bathroom, and the other time when Abby demanded we eat breakfast in the kitchen. Otherwise, we have been completely mesmerized with the television, and possibly each other. AMC is featuring Gene Kelly, TMC is still showing John Wayne, and The Biography Channel is running Julie &Julia all day.

Neither Tony nor I have voiced a word about the case or Gibbs, who Abby says returned at one the previous night. He had not spoken to her, however, and had instead crawled into his bed in silence after giving her a hug and kiss on the cheek. We still know nothing more about Buck's disappearance or Lance Corporal Jackson. All we can do is lay on the couch for hours, watching films endlessly until we are approached. What else would a newlywed, pregnant couple do?

Other than fool around, which, I have a feeling, Tony is looking forward to.

So, when McGee and Abby come into the living room and announce that they are going to The Company Store for 'some hardcore antiquing,' as Abby put it, we know that although they have secured the house and placed bugs and cameras in every room, we are relatively alone.

I am trying my best not to blush when Meryl Streep, portraying Julia Child, strains a manicotti shell from a boiling pot of water and lets out a cheer. "These damn things are hot like a stiff cock!" she warbles, dropping the shell back into the pot. Tony lets out a growl in my ear, shifting his weight beneath me.

"Are you alright, dear?" I murmur, raising a hand and blindly feeling for his hair. I run my fingers across the back of his head, scratching his scalp softly, reveling in how indulgently silky each short strand is.

Tony's lips find their way to my shoulder, and he gently places them upon my skin, sucking his way, inch by inch, to my neck. A shiver goes down my spine and I, after a short gasp, instinctively turn my head away, granting him more access. I am suddenly flipped over and he is on top of me. He searches my eyes before choosing to search my mouth, taking no extra time before lightly running his tongue across my bottom lip.

"David," I finally gasp, pulling away, "Should we not move this to the—"

"Babs and Tommy'll be back soon, Ana. I don't think we have time…" I nod and reach up to reinitiate the kiss, wrapping my arms around his neck. So this is what he always meant by a 'quickie'…

As things grow more passionate, and the closer we press ourselves to each other, I can tell we have both thrown caution to the wind and are, while remaining conscious of the dangers at hand, partly ignoring the mission. This does not, however, erase my shock when his hand finds its way down between his hips and mine.

"David…" I hope that my moan is both believable for whoever is watching us, and enough to pause Tony. "David, I am not ready for—" His lips leave mine and his warm breath is at my ear.

"I know. I'm not going to do anything. Just … pretend I am, would you?" Tony whispers, nipping right below my ear. His hand, true to his word, remains stationary, occasionally brushing against my thigh, but never dipping toward where it normally would have.

Although his ministrations are completely staged, I am expected to return them. But I cannot. After digging up the terrors from Somalia the previous night, I can only allow myself to let him do whatever he wants. After fifteen minutes of squirming, gasping, and giggling beneath him, he grins at me, sending me a signal that it is time for this to end. Amazingly, I have broken into a sweat. I utter a horribly authentic scream of faux pleasure and allow myself to go limp.

Since only I can see Tony's face, as close as it is to mine, I stare up at him. Incredulity is etched across his rugged features. He, too, is sweating, and his eyebrows are raised, allowing me to see clearly into his eyes. His breathing is deep; every inhale presses his diaphragm into my abdomen. He is actually quite sexy … I say nothing. Neither does he.

Until he sticks his tongue out and grins, joking, "You would know how to fake the Big-O, wouldn't you?"

"I have never faked an orgasm in my life, David." And I never would, not for you.

When we finally decide to leave the living room, McGee and Abby still have not returned. While I cast a smile at Tony, I am really twisting and turning on the inside. He hugs me and then pulls back, placing a gentle hand on my abdomen and an even gentler kiss on my cheek.

"It'll be okay, Ana," he reassures, "Everything will be okay."

I skip up the stairs and toward the bedroom when I see someone on the outside landing. I freeze and Tony runs into the back of me. Without saying a word, I point out the window. He draws his Derringer from his pocket and holds it concealed in his hand as he makes his way toward the door. Motioning for me to go into the closest room possible—in this case one of the guest bathrooms—Tony continues down the hall toward the door onto the landing.

Before I close the door completely, I send up a silent prayer that he may remain safe.

Soon, while I wait with bated breath for Tony to return to me, I hear dialogue.

"Excuse me, but who are you and why are you on our property?" my 'husband' asks, concern heavy in his voice.

"Who said it was yer property, son?" Another Southern voice—not Buck's, for his was higher and this new speaker is deep and husky—responds rudely. "Ah worked this land fer forty-fahv years, `n ah'm not getting' off nobody's property jus' a-cuzzin' they tell me so."

There is a long pause, during which I can imagine Tony staring at him calculatingly. Finally, he speaks. "The papers were signed two days ago. Legally, that means that the property is in fact ours, and that we can tell whoever we want to get off of our land."

"Ah have a raht t'be hurr, sonny. Jus' a-cuzzin' y'sahned some papers don't mean ah gotta get off this hurr land."

"Actually, it kind of does. You're trespassing on my soil, and if I called the PD right now, I have a strong feeling they'd back me up." Tony's voice is becoming more and more strained. I can tell he is fighting the urge to push this man over the ledge.

"Oh yeah? Mah nephew was born in this hurr house, mister, `n ah'd say Arnie was a better man then alla'yous. My son Buck'd say th'same."

"Arnie?" Tony repeats. In my mind's eye, I see him, staring the man down, never letting his hand falter, never raising the gun, though keeping it ready in his left palm. "Who's 'Arnie'?"

"Arnie's mah nephew, y'dumb son'uv'a'bitch!"

"What's his last name, sir?" The suddenness of Tony's polite tone tells me more than I have ever been able to tell about him. The sharp, abrasive attitude in the Southern man's voice reminds him of his father, when he would admonish Tony as a young boy for one thing or another, always unloving, always uncaring, never fatherly or affectionate. And this scratchy, angry tone scared him. It always would.

"Jackson. Whatsit t'you?" In that moment, I can tell that this man is not only Buck's father, but Lance Corporal Jackson's uncle.

Quickly covering, I hear Tony laugh and say, "Ooh. That's not the Arnie I knew. Mine was a bus driver when I was in eighth grade."

"Ahronic, ain't it," the man spits. "Ah take it yer gonna ask me t'leave now, aint'cha?"

I hold my breath, praying there will not be another confrontation—this time, a fatal one.

"First, I guess I'd like to ask you what your name is…neighbor." He is interrogating him. How clever… "I'm David Stadelvard. My wife, Ana, is inside. She would probably love to meet you." My stomach drops. "If you have a few minutes…"

"Ah'm Bill Andrews. `N sure. Ah've gottafew minutes."

I can hear Tony's footsteps come down the hall toward the door of the bathroom, and I quickly grab a washcloth from the linen closet and pretend to polish the mirror. A moment later, the door opens and I am greeted by Tony's sparkling blue eyes.

"Sweetheart, this is Bill Andrews. He lives down the road. He's Buck's father." There is a hint of something in his irises. Sadness, perhaps. "Mr. Andrews," Tony adds, again very respectful, "meet my wife, Ana."

Bill holds out his hand for me to shake and I loosely take it, grimacing at how rough and calloused it is. "Pleasure to meet you," I manage to get out. Tony laces an arm around my waist, setting it on my hip.

"Nahce t'meetcha too, ma'am," Bill drawls, letting go of my hand swiftly. "Yer huz-band hurr said'ja bowt this hurr layend."

"Yes, we did," I reply, giving him my best attempt at a gracious smile.

"Wud't be possib-ul fer me t'see those papers?"

I cast a look in Tony's direction, either out of nervousness or just because his face is so nice to look at. "I am surprised your son did not show them to you, Mr. Andrews. We gave him a copy."

Bill's eyes pop open wider than they were before, and I finally see into those almost maniacal, sea-foam green orbs. The madness within… He frowns and splutters, "Y'did? Wayell what in tarnation gave ya th'think that it was a good idear to give mah irresponsible, missin' son the papers? Whah didn't'cha give `em t'me?"

"We didn't know you at the time, sir." Again, Tony is being unnecessarily polite with Bill, a sign that he is both uncomfortable in this situation and rather scared about the old man's temper. "Otherwise, we would've. Our mistake."

"You weren't th'reason he went missin', are ya?" We shake our heads. "Then y'don't have any reason t'apologahz."

Desperate for a change in topic, I timidly smile and ask, "Would you…like some tea…sir?"

"Nah," Bill refuses, "Never took a lahkin' t'the stuff." He glances out the window, and then at the two of us. "Ah'll call y'all t'marra mornin'. Ah wonna see them papers." With that, the old man hobbles back down the hall, out the door onto the landing, and down the stairs.

I stare up at Tony, who stares back just as intensely.

Without me having to say a word, he nods and, with his jaw set, he shifts his gaze to the wall and says, "I know. I don't like him, either." As he walks away, the tendons on either side of his neck stand out, his shoulders tense, and his stiff stature tells me he needs nothing more than…

"David," I murmur seductively, "now that we're alone …" Tony stops walking and turns to face me, his eyes sparkling on his otherwise drawn face. "What do you say I give you a back-rub, and help you relax? All of this drama with the Andrews family is obviously taking its toll on you and—" Before I can finish my sentence, Tony is before me with his hand entangled in mine, leading me toward our bedroom.

"I say, 'That sounds wonderful,' baby." He places a gentle kiss on my lips and leads me through the door, closing and locking it behind us. While he strips his shirt off of his well-toned chest, he eyes me. "Alright, we've got…" Glancing at his watch, he continues, "About two hours and counting until B—Dad—gets here. That being said, give me your best, sweet-cheeks."

I can feel my face flush brilliantly red, remembering our rendezvous undercover.

"How about answering the phone, sweet cheeks?" he murmured, popping a grape into his mouth from the fruit basket. McGee, running his bug-finding device, stood in a bell-hop's uniform by our television.

And the moment I had picked up the receiver had been the very moment our entire mission changed. The mission, our feelings for each other, and our safety flipped in that radical moment. My eyes met his, and we knew. We knew everything about each other but so very little. And we loved every bit of that unknowing, that naïve bliss, the understanding that the moment that mission was over, we could go back to living our lives as before.

We would never have to admit our love for each other. We would never have to treat each other as anything more than partners. With these theories fully engrained in our hearts, minds, and souls, we thought we could move on. We thought we were invincible and independent and we thought we could separate work from pleasure.

We were wrong.

"Of course, mi poco extremo melenudo." Let us see Tony figure that one out. Tony's face screws up with thought, obviously trying his best at translating my Spanish.

"Your little hairy…end?" Laughing, he pulls down the blankets of the bed—which Abby must have made earlier, as I had never gotten around to making it this morning myself—and turns to me. "You aren't thinking of the whole 'not shaving' thing, right? Meaning, you'll be hairy at your 'end', or 'death,' I guess you could say?"

"No, Tony. 'Extremo' is another word for 'butt.' My little hairy butt." Realisation crosses his face and a light blush touches his cheeks.

"You will never cease to call me that, will you? I told you, my butt is not fuzzy." I stare at him in disbelief. I had seen it. I had technically felt it. He argues, "It was cold! I had goose-bumps! It wasn't hair!"

"Mm-hmm," I hum, crawling onto the bed. "Lie down and relax." Te heeds my orders and flattens himself into the mattress, letting out a soft breath as the cool sheets hit his flesh. I straddle him, a leg on either side of his hips, and kneel, pressing my thumbs and heels of my hands into the muscles between his shoulder blades.

As he groans, moans, and utters nonsensical sentences, I continue to knead his back, digging my fingers into his tension, letting him finally relax after days of pretending.

Smiling to myself, I softly get up from the bed and pad over to the bedside table, pulling out two small bottles of massage oil. I look between them; the Absinthe may be more relaxing with its spicy citrus scent, but the Armani-styled oil may also work well as it is geared more toward men.

"Sweetheart," I murmur softly, running a free hand through his hair affectionately. He emits a noncommittal grunt and I therefore offer the simple question of, "Absinthe or Armani?"

He says something that sounds like, "Absinthe." Nodding, I climb back onto the bed and drizzle a bit onto his back. He hisses as the indulgently mentholated oil touches his skin. I smooth my hands over his muscled shoulders, neck, and spine. Tony's breathing has slowed, deepened, and—overall—evened out.

When the oil has completely been absorbed by his skin, I slow my hands and smooth them down his shoulders, under his arms, and around to his chest. Tony's eyes flicker open and his mouth forms a very tired smile.

"Do you feel better, David?" I ask as he turns over. Glancing at the clock, I see that I have been giving him a massage for nearly forty-five minutes.

"Ohhh, yeah, I do," Tony moans, grinning and pulling me down on top of him. "You're so incredible." He stares into my eyes, and I am so mesmerized by their gem-like quality that I cannot look away. His voice says 'Ana,' but his irises are screaming 'Ziva.'

And although I am scared out of my mind, as I always am when I am faced with this horrible emotion, this horrible thing called 'Love,' I find myself unable to move. Resting my head on his chest, leaning my crown against the defined point of his neck that meets his collarbone, I let myself relax into Tony, and quickly find myself falling into a very deep nap.

A/N: Okay, so there it is. I also don't own Armani. As hot as Georgio Armani is, I must admit I do not own him, either. Sorry, guys! ::laughs:: Like I said, this was a very fluffy episode. Obviously some of you will not mind that much (ha ha ha.) but be forwarned that chapter eleven will be more focused on the case. (I got a headslap, unfortunately, from Gibbs this afternoon. He's overwhelmed...) Ta!