A/N: Sorry this took a little longer to get out; I got preoccupied writing on a different story—oops! I was blown away by all the love that poured in for the last part. Thank you all so much! I hope that this story can continue to be a safe haven of sorts for all of you. Enjoy the next installment and I'd love to hear what you think of it! -Tatiana
- July -
July was ushered in on the backs of gloomy rain clouds. Storms descended over the craggy coastline of the Eastern Seaboard, striking with sporadic and frequent abandon, as if making up for the weeks of clear skies, relentless sun, and oppressive heat. Occasionally, Tony discovered his fingers keeping time with the raindrops plopping on the windows, a natural albeit unreliable metronome as he worked through runs of scales and trills.
The subtle tick north of lax in his discipline did not go unnoticed by his teacher during their first lesson of the week.
The dark-haired Israeli leaned forward in her chair beside his bench, the end of her sleek ponytail flipping over her shoulder and landing like a dark stain against the white of her t-shirt. She'd fully dried off from the unexpected downpour that caught her darting the short distance from her car to his building, but that distinctive after-rain aroma still lingered on her skin, sweet and fresh. And terribly distracting when she came close enough for him to pick up the scent.
"Do not misunderstand when I say this," Ziva prefaced, "but I see improvement in you, Tony."
The sandy-haired student dropped the ring finger on his left hand, tapping the wrong key. His head whipped toward her, face aghast.
"Was that a…compliment from Madame Sousatzka?"
Her poorly suppressed grin was a prize, won for the successful teasing of his ex-partner. "Yes, and it will be the last if you continue to do that." She pointed to his far hand, referencing the error. "Again."
Tony did as he was ordered, his lips curved in a sly smile as he returned to the beginning of the contemporary piece she'd given him as a challenge.
"So," he prompted while playing through the first stanza, "am I ever gonna get to hear you play one of these days?"
"You already have."
"Showing me the fingerings for pieces doesn't count. And you know what they say about those who can't…"
Her extended silence drew his glance, bringing into view her scrunched expression of puzzlement.
"All right, maybe you don't." Tony arrived at the end of the page and paused, scratching at his stubbly chin (he'd started shaving again). "It's okay. Forget I asked." And he picked up from the top once again.
The appearance of her slender hand over the keys a moment later wasn't out of the ordinary; it usually arrived with the mission of adjusting his finger placement. The difference this time was that her willowy fingers—the ones he knew for a fact slid into place between his own like a key in a lock—settled further up the white-and-black ladder and with no hesitation, pressed down to bring forth a flood of sound.
As if her rare recital wasn't enough of a treat, Ziva rose to her feet. With her fingers still moving, though a little sloppily, she slid onto the edge of the bench beside him. A bump of her shoulder against his own served as a request for him to share.
He didn't have to be asked twice.
Tony inched over, making space for her and losing his place within the piece as a result. There was no middle ground between them, no air; from hip to thigh to knee, they were sealed up tighter than a zipper on a sandwich bag. When he stopped, shaking his hand out, she stopped as well.
"Again," she instructed quietly.
Their hands worked in tandem, her left playing the delicate melody and his right plunking out the bass line. Together, the piece was full and harmonious, rather than the monotonous version he was used to hearing from his own practicing. Their duet lasted less than a minute, Tony bowing out before they reached the tricky part he hadn't tackled yet.
She continued on, carried away with the haunting yet hopeful resonance of the piece, until a final flair of her fingers served as conclusion. A curtain falling after a performance, the sudden hush was loud with the staccato of the drizzling rain outside. The hum of the refrigerator filtering in from the kitchen. Their steady breathing.
"That was…" Tony waited for her face to turn his way before finishing the sentence. "Very cool."
Ziva released a puff of air, her lips reforming in a wistful smile. "I have not done that in…it has been too long."
"Why'd you give it up?"
The question was born of genuine curiosity, of which he had an abundant supply. It was also just as much a ploy for her to remain there, on the narrow bench, with him, if only because she was warm as a sunburn, any fragment of her body that touched his own instantly heated, and not to mention that their close proximity enhanced her scent of rainwater to the level of intoxicating, filling every square inch of his senses.
Whatever the cause, it was effective because the only move Ziva made was to fold her hands into her lap.
"I would play for Tali, as her accompanist. Simple arias," she revealed, staring so intently at a point above the top of the black piano that he wondered if she was seeing the past like a nostalgic film strip in her mind. He could practically hear the clicking of the projector. "She was a better singer than I was a pianist, however. It was not long before she jump-frogged me."
"Leap-frogged." His invested expression counteracted the roll of her eyes. "Go on."
A shake of her head, a minute lift of her shoulders. "There is nothing more to tell. This life—our life—is not conducive to such things. I have had no reason to play in years."
"Until now," he supplied.
Until they surrendered everything they knew, but still couldn't quit each other. Until this summer and the piano.
Ziva shifted her eyes and met the gaze he always had waiting for her. "Tony, I—"
She cut off her own words, instead offering him the same delicate look of gratitude from months earlier, when they were riding in his car on a lonely stretch of road, an illuminating trip to Berlin still visible in the rearview mirror, and the roundabout declaration that he liked her just the way she was fresh off his tongue.
On a surge of determination—to ensure this moment would not be wasted as that one had—he leaned into the negligible space keeping them apart and nestled her face into the cradle of his strong hands. She was so alive beneath his touch, almost feverish, and her deep hazelnut gaze switched from his eyes to his lips, as if unsure where her attention was needed the most.
His hot mouth grazed hers as he asked: "You what, Ziva?"
He brought them as close as they'd ever come to the line they'd toed with caution for eight years.
And she pushed them—finally, irrevocably—across.
Being with Ziva was like confessing a long-held secret: there was relief in its freedom and pleasure in being able to enjoy it openly. That in one instance he gained from then on the ability to kiss and embrace her as he pleased, to tuck a loose curl behind her ear, or slide their hands together, and her response to it all was acceptance, gave Tony whiplash.
Their relationship had always been a seesaw, dipping up and down on the spectrum of affection, often wavering day-to-day. Sometimes, it was out of their control.
Although it'd happened months earlier, he felt he could turn heel where he stood and be at his desk again, where he waited on that infinite night when the hunt for Bodnar ended bloody, off-book, and with dangling question marks. No matter how many times Gibbs and McGee urged him to, he wouldn't leave until he was certain his partner was safe.
So he waited, anger a clenched fist on his windpipe, rationing his air into shallow huffs. She should have let them help her from the beginning, back when it could have made a difference in the outcome. At the very least, she should have let him help, and with more than just the scraps he was tossed at the end. Once she came down from the conference room, though, her written debrief presumably complete, he found he could already breathe easier.
She'd cleaned the dried blood off her face, making the multitude of swollen, maroon cuts even more evident, and someone had given her a fresh NCIS sweatshirt to wear instead of her dirty shirt and jacket. She walked with a slight hitch in her left stride.
Spotting him at the entrance to the bullpen, Ziva didn't try to hide her confusion. "Why are you still here?"
"Had some paperwork to catch up on, so I—"
"Tony."
They couldn't lie to each other anymore. He wondered if they ever could.
"I'm going to take you home. And if you're planning on arguing with me about it," he paused, exhaling a curt laugh even though none of this was funny, "I'm going to warn you now: You're going to lose. So save it, okay?"
So much for not being angry. It seemed inconceivable to him that a couple of days before they'd fallen asleep in the same bed and danced in each others' arms, and now the expanse between them was a minefield, every possible move a threat to their survival. As usual, it was one step forward, eight back.
Maybe it was because she was broken, or because she'd expelled all her energy on another fight, or because she knew how stubborn he could be—almost as much as her—Ziva nodded, a movement that hurt her, he could tell, by the wince of her left cheek.
She tried to conceal the pain from him, but they'd only ever been good at hiding their feelings from each other when there was something to risk.
That was then.
Now, her hesitancy resided in the slight catch of her breath before they kissed, or the tentative smile when the elevator doors in his building parted to reveal him waiting for her on the other side. It wasn't the type of hesitation that preceded a bad decision, but was rather the kind that came with receiving something rare. Or fleeting. Something worth cherishing.
Tony would have been lying if he'd said the piano held the same degree of appeal for him now that all the pretenses had dissolved within the heat of their lips. The white veneer keys could not compare to the supple skin on the inside of her exposed leg, near her knee, where his fingers typically landed after slinking off the keyboard, tracing random designs into the soft canvas, each one with the aim to entice.
One rainy day, she indulged.
Articles of clothing, like breadcrumbs, dropped to the hardwood floor in their wake, creating a trail from the piano into his bedroom. He followed her down, grateful he'd been presumptuous and bought a new, queen-sized bed earlier that month. She sought out and kissed his neck, plump lips surely detecting his racing pulse. He felt it, too, thudding loudly along with his heart.
Tony wondered if it would have come to this in Berlin or even Paris, had more time been afforded to them while alone in those foreign cities, so that they could have seen each other not as partners or co-workers, but as man and woman. He wondered if, as it sometimes seemed, they were truly inevitable.
He'd always assumed that if and when this did happen between them, it would be eager and demanding, matching the rapid volleying of their banter over the years. There was no doubt he wanted her, more than he could remember wanting anyone in so long. And yet he matched her affection tenderly and without haste.
They had time now, and each other. He wanted her gaze for every moment, and her mouth for days, and her body forever.
This—them—was one step forward he never wanted to take back.