A/N: Hello, readers! Thank you for all your support at the start of this story! So here's the next part. Enjoy, and I'd love hear what you thought! ^_^
- June -
There was a rhythm to it.
How she pulled a chair in from the dining room and positioned herself on the right side of the bench on which he sat, her body leaning in closer when his hands obeyed and drifting away when his foibles piled up like a multi-car wreck.
How the monotonous tick of the metronome served as the soundtrack for the lessons, beating out what he considered an overwhelming pace for his green level of proficiency but that she claimed was actually very slow.
How she insisted that he sit up tall, rather than slouch, when practicing, deft fingers shooting out and pinching low on his spine to correct the chronic imperfection—and if not for the spark her touch alighted on the patch of skin beneath his shirt, he might have stopped her, too.
Through it all, she arrived like clockwork, first once a week, then twice, and they'd squeeze in a mini-lesson before the weekly dinners with McGee and Abby.
And he kept opening the door, letting her in.
Tony lifted his fingers into the air, allowing the previous set of keys to breathe as his digits transferred up the keyboard and applied pressure to a new trio of white. The resulting chord emitted a strangled hum.
Seated at his elbow, Ziva cringed in a way that would've been understandable—if he'd run his fingernails across a chalkboard, that is. "No, no, stop. There it should be C-E-G." She indicated with her pencil to a line halfway down the sheet of music propped up on the piano rack. "See?"
Although a month into this improbable endeavor, the notes and symbols still made his eyes cross, so her attempt to point out his mistake didn't have the intended effect.
"I thought I did! There must be something wrong with this thing…"
His eyes narrowed in at the ashen stretch of keys; her eyes narrowed in on him.
"Have you been practicing?"
"Yes," he vowed.
"Are you lying?"
"Yes."
Ziva shook her head sharply and deposited her full weight into the embrace of the chair. He elicited that reaction from her so many times that he swore the wood was beginning to splinter.
"There is nothing wrong with the piano, Tony. It is you. You are not taking this seriously."
"Wow." A scoff razored up from the back of his throat. "Flashback to me at eight-years-old in Mrs. Marcowitz's piano studio of horror. 'You, Mr. An-to-ny, must be more serious if you are to become a proper pianist.'" Tony dropped the uppity accent and pinned her with a skeptical look. "You aren't going to slap my knuckles with a ruler, too, are you?"
"I would not tempt me right now!" Her frazzled expression was matched only by the abundance of wild curls cascading down her back. Summer was in full swing, and the humidity was murder.
A chuckle escaped through his lips. "Okay, my ninja. Hold on."
Rising to his feet, Tony left her there and retreated into the kitchen. If he'd learned anything from their eight years of partnership, it was that sometimes they both needed a break. He took more time than necessary to fill two glasses with cubed ice and filtered water from the dispenser on his refrigerator. He would have brought them something to nibble on as well, but he knew without having to check that his cabinets were shamefully bare.
It was a product of the job, one of many trade-offs for being an NCIS special agent, exchanging a gun and badge for sustained intimacy and a possible family of his own. Now that he was stripped of the former accomplishments, all he had left were the crumbs in the underdeveloped side of his existence. It was a brisk reality check, to say the least.
On his way back with the drinks, he lingered under the archway between the dining and living rooms for a glimpse of his friend, her back to him as she stood by the window, peering out at his unremarkable view of the Georgetown neighborhood. Her switch from slacks and dark colors to khaki shorts and fitted tees was just one reason he wasn't complaining about the current streak of warm weather across the D.C. area. The sun-kissed tint of her skin was another.
"Here you go." Tony allowed his words to announce his return.
Ziva accepted the glass he handed to her. "Thank you."
They both took their first sips in a silence interrupted only by the drone of the A/C pumping cool, tumbled air up from the floor vent under the window, a foot or so away from where she still stood, one knee popped out, flamingo-style.
Tony had a sudden urge to ask what she did when she wasn't with him, either for these lessons or the meals they frequently went out for afterwards. His days were otherwise uneventful, aside from the handful of times he'd set out for a run at dusk, his un-exercised muscles allowing him to venture only short distances from his apartment. She would have thought he was being his typical DiNosey self, but it wasn't like that.
Now that the worst of everything they'd been through with Bodnar and Parsons was over, he was nursing the hope that they could get back to where they were in the fall, when telling each other personal stuff had become the norm. When they were friends, one might say, with a different kind of benefits.
"Is that why you quit?" Her voice was a welcome diversion from his thoughts, especially as it was no longer lined with frustration. The break had done her good. "You did not care for your teacher?"
Tony straddled the piano bench sideways, a move that felt oddly rebellious. "It was part of it, I guess," he replied, pausing to sift through the albums of his memories and set the record from that period of his life to play. "My mom wanted me to take the lessons, and I wanted to make her happy, never mind that I hated it from the start. I think that's why I stuck with it as long as I did, but once she died…" His shrug was meant to fill in the rest of the sentence.
When he lifted his eyes, her own were waiting for him, golden and tranquil. Ziva David knew a lot about losing family members. He almost didn't want to bring it up—her loss was deeper and still raw—but for that same reason, she understood and didn't toss arbitrary pity at him, as most people did.
"It sounds to me like she wanted the best for her son."
"It wasn't like I was going to be the next Mozart anyway," he joked in a weak attempt to lighten the mood.
Ziva walked around the piano and lowered into her chair, crossing her legs. "Do not sell yourself short. I think you are doing…well."
"Really?"
The surprise in his tone elicited a genuine smile from her. "You would be better if you practiced."
"I'll take what I can get." Tony raised the glass and drank, droplets splashing onto the trimmed beard he was growing as a result of not bothering to shave. "'Cause a few minutes ago, I thought I was going to be 0-2 for piano teachers."
"And you still might," she countered with a laugh.
A teasing glint danced in her eyes as they held his gaze, flickering down to his lips, and back up again—an imperceptible movement that reversed all the work the water had accomplished in cooling him down.
"But not today," Ziva said, and took a sip of her own drink.
The stray beads of water collected on the back of his hand with one smooth swipe over his mouth. Tony nodded slowly, never looking away from her.
"Good to know."
It was going to be a long summer.
It was after Ziva returned to the dining room from helping Abby pack up the leftover frittata that McGee bobbed his head once, coming to a conclusion, and declared, "Rule #39."
As she slid into her chair on the same side of the table as Tony, they looked first at each other, mirrors of confusion, and then at their former partner.
"'There's no such thing as coincidence,'" they recited together.
"As in, that you two would be humming the same piece of music. In different rooms." McGee wore an expression that spoke to his desensitized attitude toward the quirk. Like he saw such concurrences between his friends every day; it was part of the Tony and Ziva packaged deal. That was how they came.
Ziva slanted away to set him in her sights. "We were?"
Honestly, Tony hadn't noticed he was humming until it was pointed out to him, but the piece she had him working on—something from Beethoven—had been stuck in his head all day.
"I guess so," he replied.
McGee raised his hands above the table, displaying them in exaggerated surrender. "I'm not even going to ask."
At that, the sandy-haired ex-agent had to object. "She's giving me piano lessons, McPresumptuous."
They weren't keeping it a secret, exactly. Every time they all got together, the topics of conversation revolved around the possible ramifications of their resignation, speculations on Gibbs' special assignment, and of course, the scuttlebutt Abby brought with her from the Navy Yard.
What they did in their free time didn't come up that much, perhaps because there wasn't much to tell. McGee had returned to writing; they had the piano lessons. They'd all been set adrift and were treading water until they could ride the tide back home.
"Seriously?" The truth came as a shock to McGee. "You're either a saint or a glutton for punishment, Ziva. Either way, my hat's off to you." He toasted her with his wine glass, much to her amusement.
"Excuse me," Tony scoffed. "I'm a great student. Tell him, Ziva."
Although her throaty chuckles failed to corroborate his claim, it was impossible for him to consider the sound of her laughter anything but a reward.
He found himself smiling stupidly and laughing along. "Gee, thanks a lot."
"Aw," Ziva breathed.
Reaching out both hands, she rested them high up on his arm, her heated touch soft and generous, stripped of its usual reserve by the wine she'd consumed with dinner. It was a gesture with the intent to soothe, and it worked—until Abby waltzed in from the kitchen, causing Ziva to reclaim her hands into her lap.
"Everybody is so happy," the forensic scientist observed as she rejoined the group. She was holding up remarkably well considering her family was disbanded, and they all knew it was these dinners that kept her functioning. "What haveI missed?"
"Ziva's teaching Tony to play the piano." McGee was gleeful and smirking.
"Ooo." Abby swiveled around toward her friends, her hands up near her shoulders, fingers splayed out, with excitement brightening her already perpetually cheerful face. "This I have to see."
Ziva sat forward, resting her forearms on the edge of the table. "I do not think an audience is a good idea for Tony. He is easily distracted as it is."
"Hey," he protested lightly, aiming to catch her eye, but she was looking straight ahead, decidedly averting his gaze.
He was getting spoiled by the Ziva who slid her pencil behind her ear halfway through each lesson; who slipped off her shoes when they sat on his couch and ate pizza, half the time watching The Philadelphia Experiment or All About Eve or The Apartment, the other half spent just talking. Apparently, that Ziva wasn't for everyone to see.
Abby wasn't deterred. "Okay then. But, can you, like, play anything real yet?"
The request was literal music to his ears. "I thought no one would ever ask," Tony said, whisking her off to the piano in the other room. "And now for Anthony DiNozzo, Jr.'s musical styling of—" Fingers posed on the black and white keys, he paused to build suspense. "Jingle Bells."
"Wow, Christmas in June. Festive."
"Prepare to be amazed, Miss Sciuto."
Just as he made it through the first stanza—Abby acting as lone vocalist—the rest of the dinner party caught up with them, McGee taking a seat on the black leather sofa and Ziva hanging back, propping her shoulder against the wall dividing the rooms to watch the scene unfold.
Tony had the notes memorized well enough to tear his eyes away from the sheet music and glance up at her. What he saw there was not the critical stare of a piano teacher or a friend humoring a friend, but rather something weighted, even in her distance, and constant, even when she blinked.
It wasn't until their next regularly scheduled lesson, with vivid rays of late-morning sunlight filtering through the tapered slits in the blinds, reflecting off the polished surface of the piano, that he could call her on it.
"What you said to Abby the other night," Tony began, toting her customary chair up beside the piano bench. "About not having an 'audience' for these lessons of ours."
Ziva sank into the chair, only her eyes following him as he lifted the cover off the front of the metronome, releasing the pendulum to swing from side to side.
"Yes," she acknowledged.
Tony took his own seat, sighed, and shifted to face her. "I was thinking about it and… I think you were wrong." Before she could interject, he held up a finger to plead for her patience and leaned in, as if to share a secret with her. "And I also think you should just admit it."
She squinted at him. "Admit what?"
"You want me all for yourself."
"Oh, I do, hm?"
He couldn't tell if she was going along with him or not, so he risked it. "Yeah, you do."
If there was any residual denial that these piano lessons were anything other than well-orchestrated excuses to spend time with each other, it wasn't coming from him. The fact that she'd stuck with him this long—coupled with her on-going willingness to linger in his company afterwards—made him think that she wasn't pretending, either. But when it came to Ziva David's heart, he could never be too sure.
Her brows rose delicately in response to both his assertive statements and the slow bloom of his sideways smile. And she smiled, too, gradually easing into the cool breeze of the revelation, joining him in the gentle current flowing between them.
Then Tony felt her fingers arrive on his low back, posed to correct his habitual slouching with a quick pinch, but there was no need.
He was already sitting up tall.