A/N: Hello..I apologise for the lateness of this chapter. I'm kind of disappointed in the lack of reviews on the last one, actually...I hope you all enjoyed it. Perhaps the lack of reviews is actually a good thing? I don't know, you tell me. I'm surprised no one wanted to know my hypotheses about Tony and Ziva and Jeanne and stuff from a few chapters back. I suppose Curiousity Killed the Cat, right? Anyway, this chapter was difficult to write. I'm not sure why. Oh well. Did you all watch this week's NCIS? Please tell me you did. If you're a Tiva fan, you have to watch it. I ended up dancing around my living room, squealing. Freaking...FINALLY. ::grins::

Disclaimer: Erm, I don't own Dean Martin or Frank Sinatra. I equally do not own the College of which I speak. I don't own Jane Eyre. I don't own NCIS. I do, however, own the word 'glitterier.' ::smiles::

It did not take us much longer to find Buck, approximately three and a half weeks. He was not as we had wanted him—alive, so that we could take him back to Virginia and draw answers out of him—but we came across his body in the woods. I suppose it was not so much 'we' as it was Gibbs, McGee, and Tony, but I did sit in the house making dinner with Abby, awaiting their return.

A little hike in the woods for the three men—three weeks after Tony took me to Mass and dinner—yielded the discovery of a small hut, nestled among trees and covered with snow. Over baba ghanoush and hummus, Gibbs explained that, according to Ducky's approximations—after the trio had followed his instruction for internal temperature—Buck had died at least four weeks prior to NCIS finding him. From the lack of evidence of forced entry, Tony said it was safe to assume that Buck had killed himself. I imagined that to mean he was feeling guilty over the circumstances of his own cousin's death.

Of course, sitting here now, cuddled in Tony's arms, reading Jane Eyre for what must be the hundredth time, alleviates the morbid thoughts. I am staring into the pages, drowning in the perfect world, perfect life, of the 1800s. I can almost see myself in a beautiful bustled gown, in copper and trimmed in black lace. In this fantasy world, I have a fascinator perched on the side of a tower of cascading pin-curls, my makeup natural but alluring, stunning chandeliers clipped to my earlobes, and topaz gems strung around my neck…

I am brought to reality by warm breath on my neck, followed by the gentle caress of soft lips against my skin. I turn my head slightly and feel Tony nuzzling my hair. Letting out a low chuckle, I raise my hand and run my fingers through his hair, cradling his head. "Well, hello," I murmur, turning the page.

"Hi," he whispers, rubbing his hand against my arm. "Don't your eyes ever get tired?"

"What, when I am reading?" I ask, and then shake my head. "I love this book." Tony nods and I feel his forehead rest against the back of mine. "Have you ever read it?"

"Mmph," he mumbles. "I've been reading over your shoulder." I settle into his chest.

He has put on a bit of weight since I met him in 2005. That was five years ago. He was slender then, very muscular, and obviously maintained quite an active lifestyle. I never noticed his weight gain when he was dating Jeanne, so it must have been after that.

Nevertheless, he is still extremely handsome, borderline sexy. It is surprising that more women do not throw themselves at him half as hard as he throws himself at them. The way his eyes glitter when he is passionate about something, the way he grins sometimes—either suggestively or not—and the way his nostrils flare and tendons in his neck stand out when he is excited or angry … It is wrong of me to compare him to Michael, but Tony is far more attractive.

Looking back on it, yes, I loved Michael. There is not a doubt in my mind. However, Tony has been the only constant. Now that we have agreed upon the circumstances—that we are attracted to each other—there are two outcomes to the assignment.

The first is that we continue seeing each other after we go back to Virginia. The second, we go back to NCIS and continue deluding ourselves until it is too late.

As unfortunate as it is, I foresee us following the latter path. Letting out a sigh, I turn the page. But I have not read a word.

Groaning, I lift my head. 'Somewhere, there's a someone for everyone. Somewhere, there's a someone for me...'

"Hello?" I answer, my voice hoarse.

"Ziva, get DiNozzo on the phone." Gibbs is not pleased.

I shake Tony's shoulder and press the phone to his ear. "Mmph?" he groans, rolling onto his back. A second later, however, he has jumped out of the bed and is pulling on a pair of jeans. "Yeah, Boss," he blurts, running out the door.

"David?" I ask, rolling off my edge of the bed and waddling after him. "David, come on. Where are you going?"

Tony spins around and looks at me very pointedly. "Dad needs my help."

"Is something wrong?" I chase him down the stairs as gracefully as I can. "David, tell me what is—"

When we reach the bottom, he whispers in my ear, "Problem at the College. I'll be back soon." My stomach flips and I must be noticeably distraught, because he kisses me briefly and, bracing the back of my head, looks straight into my eyes. "I promise I'll be fine." Without another word, he grabs his wool coat and sprints out the door.

I am almost to the kitchen to prepare myself a cup of tea when my cell phone, which Tony had pressed into my palm before his exit, begins singing again. I answer wearily and am greeted by Gibbs' stressed voice.

"`S'Tony there?" the older man asks, his voice somewhat raspy. "I need him. Now."

I glance out the window, pulling aside the lacey curtains. Tony's car is not in the driveway. "No, Leroy. He left a moment ago. Is everything okay?"

"There's an issue at the College. Forget it. Stay put. Call if you need anything."

Stressed-out Gibbs is less fun than Angry Gibbs.

"But, Leroy—" Before I can get out another word, Gibbs has hung up on me and I am alone in the house, in silence.

In my opinion, silence is bad. It means that things are abnormal, unless you are with someone, and there is an aura of contentment around them. For example, Tony and I can sit in the same space without having to talk, because we know each other well enough. For me to have to sit in this house all alone, however, is nearly unbearable. It sets me on edge and makes me want to…

Clean.

When Tony calls me around noon, I am in the upstairs bathroom, curled up beside the toilet, close to vomiting due to the cocktail of chemicals in the orange bucket sitting next to me. I drop the scrubby brush and sponge into the ammonia-blended-soapy water and pull the rubber gloves off of my right hand, pulling the black cell phone from my pocket—which is conveniently wedged at an odd angle due to the pregnancy pack around my waist—and flip it open with my chin.

"Hello?"

"Hey, Zeev. Our cover's definitely blown this time," Tony murmurs. "Gibbs says he doesn't care, because that's the point of the trap."

"So, we are supposed to just go along with it as though we think he does not know, even though we know he knows but does not think we know?" I ask him, rolling back onto my heels.

There is silence, and then he says in concern, "Are you feeling okay? Your words are slurred."

Now that he mentions it, I do feel rather lightheaded. "I am cleaning the bathroom."

"Oh, okay. Well, be careful," he states. "I'll be home by four. We have paperwork and evidence to look over and discuss."

"What happened?"

"Dead Naval Officer found under a utilities bridge." I let out a soft gasp and he goes on. "He was obviously dumped there. Since Ducky can't get up here right away, Gibbs is actually letting the Canandaigua P.D.'s M.E. look over the body for right now."

I lackadaisically squeeze water out of the sponge with my other hand and run it over the base of the toilet. "But Ducky is coming?"

"Should be." There is a tussle in the background and Tony hesitantly says, "Okay, Zee-vah, I have to go, but I'll be home soon. Be careful. Any problems, call me." I assume he has hung up but am pleasantly surprised when he whispers, "Love you, bye."

Smiling, I reply, "Love you too. Bye." Then the click. What is unsettling is not the statement that has just left Tony's mouth, but the fact Tony has—without faltering—said he loves me.

Screw Rule Number Twelve.

True to his word, Tony returns home before four. Granted, it is three-fifty in the afternoon, but he kept his promise. As a reward, I have planned on preparing roasted two Cornish Game hens—for an extended period of time so they are tender and not dry—that Gibbs bought at the market, smashed potatoes with cream and butter, and blanched green beans for dinner. Looking around the kitchen, I had sighed. There had been something out of place, something not quite right. I had, however, shrugged and, after flipping through a cookbook I had found in the cupboard and carefully deliberating, decided to make chocolate mousse for dessert.

Tony returns unnoticed. The Dean Martin/Frank Sinatra mixed CD that I had found is on nearly full volume, covering any sounds. When I feel a pair of eyes trained on my back, I slowly turn toward the source, preparing myself to fight if necessary. I see that it is only Tony, leaning against the counter, and relax slightly. Though he is staring at me slyly, I feel relieved.

"Something smells amazing," he declares, walking around the island and crouching down in front of the oven window. His nose grazes my thigh as he rises to his feet. "Mm, someone smells amazing." Looking at me with a curious expression on his face, he murmurs, "Vanilla?"

"It is my new fabric softener. I saw a commercial for it online yesterday." I stir the chocolate ganache, nearly tipping over the glass double boiler when I feel his hand against my leg.

His eyes are deeper. Glitterier, if that is even a word. They are like the sea. There is a hint of green, a splash of blue, and diamonds.

"Smells lovely," Tony murmurs, dipping his head against my ear. "Sexy, even." I smile up at him. "What's for dinner?"

"Smashed potatoes, Cornish game hens, green beans, and chocolate mousse for dessert," I list off, satisfied by the hungry gleam in his eyes. "Gibbs picks out excellent meats. This should be, the way I prepared and roasted it, that is…this should be the most tender Cornish hen you have ever had."

Letting out a low chuckle, he agrees, "I bet it will be." Glancing at his watch, he turns for the door and states, "I've gotta shower before I eat. The scene was cold, but really muddy …" I am about to admonish him with, 'You'd better not have tracked mud across my spotless floors!' when he grins and points to his stocking feet. "I'll be down for dinner…" With a wink, he taps my backside and walks out the door saying, "…Sweet cheeks."

What a man.

Tony groans, taking a bite of the Cornish hen. "Ana, this is insane."

Bowing my head, I blush and murmur, "Thank you."

Out of nowhere, he asks, "Aren't you supposed to … like … be on bed rest?" I look at him oddly. "Well, I mean, you're seven months in …"

Shaking my head, I let out a small giggle. "No, I do not have to be on bed rest."

"You're seven months in, Ana," Tony repeats, and his voice is soft, as though he is both uncomfortable with the topic while wanting desperately to talk about it. "Don't you think you should?"

"No!" I can tell my face is screwed up with my annoyance. "Dr. Owens told me that I have not yet had any of the normal reasons for bed rest. Okay? So why confine myself to a bed if there is not a reason?" I shake my head. "I have better things to do with my time."

My partner reaches across the table and takes my hand. "Ana. Dad wants you to rest." My eyes narrow. Why am I so defensive all of a sudden? "Really…"

Dropping my voice, I hiss, "We should not be here right now, David. Leroy told us we would be back home after six months. That deadline was four weeks ago."

"Dad only wants you to be safe. He wants grandchildren," he retorts, setting down his fork. "Don't you see? You're doing too much."

I am on my feet in seconds, which is more than I have been able to say for myself over the past few weeks. "I. Am. Not. Pregnant!" I shout. "How many times do I have to tell people that? First Abby, and now you? It is bad enough having to wear this ridiculous pack all the time, but leazazel, Tony, I am not going to delude myself into thinking that this assignment is real life!" Out of breath, I hug my abdomen. The pack is pressing against my diaphragm, making deep intakes of breath very difficult and slightly painful.

Tony is silent for a while, and thoughts of how I could have better phrased my outburst race through my head. When he finally speaks, I am unsure of how I myself will respond. "So, you're saying it would be better for us to finish out the assignment and then, when we go back to Virginia, forget this all ever happened?" My breath catches. "I don't know as I could do that, Ziva." His voice is raspy.

"That is not what I meant…"

"Then what did you mean, Ziva?" he demands, looking at me, a wild gleam to his eyes. There is a hint of pain in them as well, however, and I am seeing how much he really does care. "Go ahead, lay it on me."

"You do not know what you are asking." I squeeze my eyes shut to bar myself from his livid and hurt form.

"Yeah? You wanna bet?" Tony argues. "I don't want to forget. I don't want to pretend. Isn't it enough that I just want you?" My eyes spring open and I am face to face with him.

"What about Gibbs' rule?"

He shakes his head. "To hell with Rule Number Twelve, Ziva. It's us. Tony DiNozzo and Ziva Davíd." When I do not comment, the hurt man drops his gaze, carries his plate to the trashcan where he empties it, and saunters to the hall. "The files are in my bag. I'm going for a drive. Call me if you need anything."

Before I can apologize and beg him to stay, he is gone. Sighing, I begin cleaning up from dinner, only stopping when I hear the doorbell, followed by a knock on the door. "Coming," I call, assuming that it is Tony. That he forgot his keys or something of the like. Or, perhaps he has come back to beg forgiveness.

I am faced with nothing, and am just closing the door when I hear the upstairs fire-escape door crash open. I duck for the pantry and close the door as quietly as I can behind me. I dig in my pocket for my phone and am in mid-text when I hear gunshots. I watch as my phone dies from lack of battery power and am reduced to praying, especially when I hear footsteps crossing the room toward me.

I am so terrified that I forget to breathe.

When the doors of the pantry are swung open, I gasp in shock. There was Doctor Owens, standing with a small pistol, aiming the muzzle directly at me. He stares down at me with an expression of excitement plastered on his face.

"Well, hello, there, Miss Stadelvard," he says through a sickening smile. "So very nice to see you again, my dear."

"What do you want, Doctor Owens?" I snap. "Why did you break into my house?"

Owens lets out a belly laugh. "Oh, Ana, you're so incredibly dense." I stare at him, half quizzically, half in terror. "You know things."

"What are you talking about?"

Ignoring me, he repeats, "You know things. And, you're coming with me, and we're going to talk about them. Okay?"

"My husband is going to come back and see this and realize what happened," I threaten. "He will call the police and then they will find you."

"We'll see about that." He reaches forward, pressing the cold muzzle of his pistol into my temple as he rakes his hand through my hair and pulls me upward in one painful sweep. "Walk."

I am too confused not to.

A/N: Okay. There you go. Two chapters to go and then you're done. ::waves:: Ta!

Note: Leazazel means 'Damn' if you didn't remember!