A/N: This was written hastily in a heatwave-induced delirium. Apologies for any mistakes.
The next installment won't come any faster than this one, so I hope this is enjoyment enough.
Disclaimer: Disclaimed.

0300

(Timeline: season ten-ish.)

In Tony's experience, a call to his cell phone at three in the morning usually means one of two things. Either someone he loves is in hospital or dead, or someone he has never met before is in hospital or dead. Either way, he doesn't like the phone ringing so early, but he has taken an oath to adhere to a certain set of rules that make it impossible for him to pretend he doesn't hear the ringing. Never be unreachable is a rule that is followed to the letter in his strange little family. This is, unless someone (usually Gibbs or Ziva) is purposely trying to hide. As much as Tony would like to hide in his blanket tonight, he cannot think of a good enough reason to choose hibernation over duty.

He throws an arm out in the direction of his nightstand and feels around for his phone. When he finally finds success, he brings it back to him and tries to snuggle it down under the covers with him. It is this snuggling that muffles his voice when he answers.

"Yeah, DiNozzo."

There is a pause on the line before a woman asks, "Hi, is that Tony?"

Tony frowns into his blankets. The voice isn't familiar to him. It's not Ziva or Abby, and it doesn't trigger anything in the ex-girlfriend part of his brain (a part that is, admittedly, deteriorating). As he expects the worst he supposes it could be a nurse or a cop, but wouldn't she then ask for Agent DiNozzo?

He is over-thinking this.

"Uh, yeah," he says cautiously, and then clears the sleep from his throat. "Who's this?"

The woman sounds relieved not to have roused a random man from his sleep. "This is Abelo. I'm Ziva's friend. We met a couple of months ago at the, um, thing?"

The thing she refers to was some kind of weird garden party in the summer hosted by one of Ziva's friends. Tony didn't attend, except for the 10 minutes that it took him to go in, locate Ziva and pull her away from her friends to attend a particularly heinous crime scene. Abelo and her bottle of champagne were unwilling to let him take Ziva without a fight, and she wasn't shy about telling him how much of a relentless drain Tony was on Ziva's social life. The run-in had been…awkward. And clearly, Abelo remembers that.

But he's not interested in that trip down memory lane right now. He's more interested in why the friend of his partner—the one who is so very good at finding trouble—is calling him at three o'clock on a Sunday morning. "Is Ziva okay?" he asks. His brain is beginning to kick into gear under the threat of Ziva-related harm or destruction.

"Oh, yeah," Abelo says quickly and dismissively, trying to reassure him. "I mean, she's not bleeding from the head or anything. But we went out tonight and she's kind of, um…drunk."

Tony sighs to himself and rubs his face as the red alert within him downgrades to yellow. "Which kind of drunk?" he asks, and then yawns. "The kind where she gets all melancholy and then worries about her past and the future? Or the kind where she has extremely poor impulse control?"

"Uh, the second one, I guess," Abelo replies. "She's chatty and messy and happy, and she needs to call it a night. She probably should have an hour ago. But I can't drive her and I'm nervous about putting her in a taxi by herself. I'm really sorry to ask, but would you be able to come and pick her up?"

The opportunity to watch Ziva unplugged from one drink too many is one that Tony is usually fond of. Poor impulse control leads to her being way too talkative, usually divulging a few things about herself she normally wouldn't, saying hilarious things that she doesn't even get that she said, and often becoming indulgently touchy-feely. And yet, he hesitates. Because he's really, really comfortable in his nice warm bed and wasn't planning on getting out of it for another five hours. On the other hand, what's he going to do? Leave her stranded while she's drunk? He sighs. She's lucky that he likes her so much.

"Okay," he finally says to Abelo. "I'm coming. Tell her she's got 20 minutes to do all her throwing up for the night before I bring her back to my really nice apartment."

There's a faint chuckle over the line, and Tony despairs that Abelo thinks he's joking. "Got it."

…

He finds Ziva with Abelo and a third woman who looks familiar at the 24-hour McDonald's Abelo directed him to. It's not just Ziva who appears to be drunk, Tony is pleased to note. The trio is hardly being offensively intoxicated, and they're not causing a scene or otherwise drawing attention to themselves. But there is something about the three women dressed for a party but perching on plastic seats in a fast food 'restaurant' that has an aura of tequila shots about it. To be fair, most of the people in this McDonald's down the street from a row of bars at 0330 have an aura of tequila or a similar intoxicant about them. There is a lone shift worker sitting in the corner who, judging by the expression on his face, appears to consider this place as the sixth ring of hell. Tony can sympathize.

Abelo is the first to give him a sheepish wave when he approaches their table. The movement catches Ziva's eye, and she looks over her shoulder at him. His pre-prepared smile of good-natured (sort of) disappointment is met with a genuine smile of affection that unexpectedly turns his insides upside down and makes gooseflesh rise on his arms. She reaches out to him as soon as he is within arm's reach and grips his hand as she tilts her head back to look at him. Her makeup is dissolving at this very late hour, her hair is edging towards that wild state that he is such a fan of, and he finds himself suddenly assaulted by thoughts of what she would look like completely undone as he presses her into his sheets. He deploys his best poker face as he tries to reign himself in. For Christ's sake, they're at a McDonald's. It's right down the bottom of the list of sexy places, alongside a sewerage treatment plant and a religious fundamentalist prayer circle.

"I am sorry Abelo called you," Ziva is telling him, very softly and very quickly. "I would have been perfectly capable of getting a cab on my own. I do not know why she thought I needed additional assistance. I can protect myself from deviant cab drivers, you know. I used to be in the Mossad. I was trained in how to disable a man. Permanently, if needed."

Her rambling is more amusing than sexy, and he is able to smirk and roll his eyes as he slides into the vacant seat across from her. She doesn't let go of his hand. Touchy-feely, indeed. "Yeah, Ziva, I've met you before. I know all that."

"I just mean that I am sorry she bothered you."

"It's a pleasure," he lies, and steals a few fries from her. They're cold and gross, and he has no problem leaving the rest of them alone. "Ready to go?"

"Your place or mine?" she asks with a straight face. Her friends chuckle, but Ziva doesn't seem to notice.

"Mine. I'm not driving all the way to your place at this time of night."

"I'm sorry to make you come out," Abelo tells him. "But I can't handle her. You can."

"Can I?" he asks, genuinely surprised. He always feels like what he does is the exact opposite of handling her. In any effective manner, anyway.

It is Ziva who snorts, and waves her free hand in the air. "Stop being cute," she tells him, although he can't work out what that means. "Let's go." She drops his hand finally so she can brace both hands on the table as she gets to her feet. Almost immediately she pitches forward, and Tony stands in a flash and steadies her by grabbing the top of her arm.

"You good?" he checks, but Ziva doesn't appear to have noticed she was going to face plant.

"I am great!" she tells him enthusiastically. She smoothes her hands down the front of her little black dress, works her foot back into the high black pump she had previously abandoned, and takes a small step away from the table. She bites her lip then (a sight which Tony's libido really cannot handle at this hour) and seems to eye the route from table to door with distrust. Tony takes a few steps to the door, expecting her to follow. But she doesn't. She just stands there with her hands on her hips and a vague frown on her face.

"Ziva?"

She lifts her head quickly. "Hmm?" she asks, and then grabs the table for support when the movement of her head seems to make her dizzy.

He gestures over his shoulder to the door. "You coming?"

She gives him a bright smile he doesn't think he has ever seen on her before. "Absolutely." But she doesn't move.

"Like, now?" Tony cajoles. "Or you need a few minutes?"

"Now," she says, nodding. "I am just…" She trails off and flings her arm out in front of her like a flight attendant indicating the strip of lights on the floor to follow in case of an emergency.

"Picking your route?" he offers.

Her smile dissolves into a meek expression. He's not used to seeing that on her, either. "There seems to be a lot of steps to the door," she tells him.

Tony looks at Abelo and arches an eyebrow. She nods slowly, but knowingly.

"I can't handle her," Abelo repeats.

He's still not sure that he can. "Something tells me that if I just pick you up and carry you out of here, you're going to get offended," he tells her.

Ziva snorts and waves her hand dismissively. "I do not need to be carried," she chuckles. "I am perfectly fine."

"Then come on," he says, and cocks his head towards the door again.

He hears the uneven clip-clop of heels stumbling on tile behind him, and it takes all of his willpower not to turn around and laugh at her.

…

The seatbelt in his Mustang seems to throw up another obstacle for her, but she sorts it out with a few mutterings and 'tsk's before Tony can ignore her pride and reach over to help. Once that task is completed, Ziva tosses her hair back over her shoulder, flashes him a wide, confident smile and begins speaking to him again in that strangely quiet but lightning-fast way.

"Thank you for coming, Tony," she says as he starts the engine and puts the car in gear.

"It's my pleasure," he half lies. Pleasure. Hadn't he already said something about that? He feels slightly uncomfortable with his thoughts again.

Ziva charges on, oblivious. "No, it is not."

"Ziva, it's fine," he tells her firmly, and then yawns at exactly the wrong time. "I'll just make fun of you mercilessly tomorrow."

"You are tired."

"Which is why I'm not making fun of you mercilessly now. It's almost four in the morning."

"Abelo should not have called you."

He groans pointedly and pulls out into the non-existent traffic. "This conversation was boring the first time, Ziva. Let's not have it a second time."

Ziva sighs, and then he hears a dull thud. He glances over to see her that her eyes have closed and her head is pressed against the glass. He wonders if it is too much to hope that she has fallen asleep. He loves drunk, touchy-feely Ziva, but he has a feeling that makes him wonder if sleep would be a total blessing tonight.

After two blocks of silence he begins to feel the skin on the side of his neck prickle. He is being watched. He can feel it. And it unnerves him. The fact that it is Ziva who is watching does not help the feeling even a little bit. He waits until the car is pointed along a straight and relatively deserted piece of road and then turns his head quickly to catch her off guard. But Ziva—drunk, merry, touchy-feely Ziva—makes absolutely no attempt to hide the fact that she is looking at him. No, gazing is more like it, if the flipping of his stomach is to be believed.

"What?" he questions, wary of such open affection from her. Surely she will pull out a throwing star from beneath her hem to balance out the nice moment?

But she elects to blindside him with words. "You are very handsome," she states, softly and quickly. But she appears to be sincere. And it's the sincerity that makes him laugh.

"Uh, okay. I know," he adds, presenting the bravado she must expect.

"Yes, you do," she says, but her tone lacks accusation of conceit.

He can't think of anything to say because he can't guess at the exact thought her words are dancing around. He elects to lift a questioning eyebrow. She sighs, turning the air between them vaguely alcoholic for a moment, and lets her head loll against the headrest as she gives him a small, warm smile.

"It is good to look at you," she informs him. "Your face makes me happy."

He feels his heart squeeze. Your face makes me happy. He can relate. The sight of her every morning brightens his day immeasurably. But she's drunk, so he can't reciprocate and be sure that she'll hear him. He takes the safer route and makes a joke.

"With its handsomeness?"

"With its Tony-ness," she corrects. "I find your Tony-ness pleasing."

It's funny because she's drunk. If she were sober, well, she wouldn't have said it. But if she did, it would probably prompt him to push harder at their already weakened boundaries. As it is, he chuckles and plays with her.

"Good news for you. I've got a lot of it to share."

She continues to smile at him, until suddenly the smile drops and she reaches over to grab his thigh. "I meant to ask. Why did you and Wendy break up?"

He swings his head around whip fast to look at her, but his thoughts are too slow to match the movement. "Huh?" he grunts.

"Wendy," she repeats, as if she is differentiating between half a dozen ex-fiancés.

He watches her closely for any tell that will show her hand. Why the hell is she interested in that all of a sudden? What happened to her and her friends tonight that brought it to the front of her mind? And how much information is a safe amount to divulge while she is apparently so inquisitive?

"Uh, I guess she didn't think I was a good enough guy," he replies, trying to sound both vague and dismissive of the conversation.

But it is Ziva who nails dismissive. "She was wrong," she tells him firmly.

Tony finds himself shrugging as he returns his gaze to the road and he turns suddenly introspective. Damn it, he knows it's a bad idea to think back over your life when it's past midnight. But he can't help putting himself down. "Maybe not."

She smacks his knee lightly. "She was not good enough for you."

It's nice that she takes his side—and not necessarily expected—but her argument is flawed. And he no longer stings so much from rejection that he can't point it out. "Well, you don't know her very well, Ziva."

Ziva waves her hand. "I am making a likely assumption."

"Never assume," he reminds her. "Double check."

"I am trying to double check with you."

He allows a moment of levity. "I don't know if I'm a reliable source, sweetcheeks."

When he glances at her, he sees that her eyes are narrowed in the way they do when she is trying to solve a problem. "I will ask Gibbs."

It sounds like a threat and he takes it as such. The idea of Ziva going to Gibbs to ask about Tony's ex-fiancé is almost enough to give him hives. "I would strongly advise you not to do that."

"Well, I do not need to," she says, sounding sure of herself. "I can guess. I just know."

He shakes his head. "Drop the bone, Rex. Why are you even interested?"

"We were just talking tonight…" She trails off before she gets anywhere near the point, and he thinks that might be a good thing. She is suddenly sounding a little too wistful for his liking. When she picks up her thought again, her tone has turned almost sad. "Sorry. It is not my business. But I wanted to offer you my belated condolences."

He turns his head to look at her with incredulity. "It was eleven years ago, Ziva."

She offers a tiny shrug and bites her thumbnail. "I said belated."

He should take his own advice and drop the bone, but he can't help but take the obvious and put it in front of her beautiful drunken face. "We didn't even know each other back then, Ziva."

"No," she says on a sigh, and drums her fingers on his knee. He doubts she's even aware that her hand is still touching and feeling, and that makes warning sirens go off in his head. "But it bothers me that you were hurt."

"Before we ever met?"

"I am still sorry," she insists, and he might be hallucinating with his tiredness, or it might be a trick of the streetlights, but her eyes look kind of wet and sad. "And it is her loss. She made the wrong decision, and she did the worst out of it."

He thinks that this, along with her declaration that his face makes her happy, is a high water mark for the quality of her compliments. If he is going to leave his apartment to pick up her drunken butt at three in the morning, then at least such unfiltered affection is his reward.

But because he is him, he must argue with her. "She ended up getting married and having a kid. That's not so bad. Well, she got divorced too, but—"

"And is that what you want?"

He deliberately misunderstands. "To get divorced?"

"To get married and have a baby."

The question is loaded and her hand on his knee begins to burn. "Well…yes."

He turns right onto his street, and she is blessedly (or perhaps torturously) quiet as he looks for a parking space. Miracle of miracles, the space he vacated earlier is still free, and he does a quick reverse park back into it. It's not his best work, because his heart is pounding and it's making him a bit shaky, but he doubts that Ziva will be focused enough to point out that he's three inches off where he should be. He puts the car in park and turns off the engine, and then takes a moment to breathe before he turns his head to look at her. Large brown eyes blink languidly at him, and a pink tongue darts out to wet pink cupid lips. This conversation might make him nervous, but he won't deny that the sight of her tired and undone is so nice to bear witness to at this time of the morning.

"It will come to you," Ziva tells him finally.

His heart pauses rhythm and his hands feel weak. "Maybe." As much as he likes to fantasize, he often doubts that his luck will turn.

"It is up to you," she tells him sagely, and lifts her hand from his knee to cradle his frickin' jaw. He wonders if she has even the slightest idea what she's doing to him tonight. "You are handsome and intelligent. And funny and incredibly loyal. Brave and caring. You are probably the most eligible bachelor in the city. And once you decide that you want to settle down and start a family, you will not have any problem finding women who want to take you off me and become Mrs DiNozzo."

He is happy to go along with that rambling assessment of his charms right up until the moment she pulls the rug out from under him and he falls on his ass. He can't believe what he's hearing. Can't believe any of it. He doesn't think this conversation should continue, but it will. He just wishes she were sober for it.

"Take me off you?" he echoes, because that is that part above all the flattery that sticks firmly in his head.

She nods knowingly, and brushes her thumb along his cheek briefly before finally letting her hand fall back to her own lap. "Mrs DiNozzo will not want me around." She closes her eyes quickly, and this time he knows they were growing misty.

"Ziva—"

"Can we please talk about something else?" she asks suddenly, and lifts her hands to press against her temples.

He stares at her curiously, and is left with the impression that she knows she just said something she didn't mean to. She has crossed her own line. If he were a lesser man, he would exploit this and hold it over her. But he would like to be the man that she thinks he is, so he helps her keep her pride.

He brushes her hair over her shoulder because he simply can't help himself. "Let's go inside and you can go to sleep, okay?" he says gently.

She rubs her eyes and nods, and then goes to get out of the car without first unbuckling her seatbelt. She whispers an expletive at the forgotten restraint as Tony rolls his eyes to himself with too much affection, then fights the buckle again for a few moments before securing freedom.

Once out of the car she throws out her remaining pride and makes the trip from the street and all the way to his living room sans stilettos. His arm is tensed and ready to shoot out to catch her if she misses the step from his landing down to the living room (he's not judging—he has missed that step himself a few dozen times, and not only when he's drunk), but she steps down with drunken grace and allows herself to be herded towards his bedroom. She stops short just past his closet and stares at his new addition with a confused little frown.

"When did you get a new bed?"

He gestures at the queen and toes off his shoes. "A few weeks ago."

Ziva stands still, her stilettos dangling from her fingers as he hovers behind her. "Do you have a girlfriend?"

He follows her train of thought along its natural line, but given their previous conversation he is quick to end it. "No. I just decided to get a proper bed again."

She takes that in, takes in the whole room, and Tony brushes past her to smooth out the comforter awkwardly. It is an unnecessary move considering they—no, she. Or he. Oh crap, they have a problem now—will soon be getting under the covers. But he needs something to do with his idle hands after she has made him so self-conscious.

She heaves a sigh and seems to suck up courage he didn't realize that she lacked. "Tony?"

"Yeah?"

"I know this is your sanctuary."

It was, but for longer than was probably healthy. "Sometimes."

"I do not wish to intrude and take it from you."

He already hates this conversation, particularly when it arrives in tandem with the last. "Ziva—"

She charges on, quickly and softly. "It is not fair to you."

"I don't mind." It's the truth. He resisted bringing her here for so long because he knew her presence, however fleeting, would soak itself into the walls and the floor. He is smart enough to know that this could have been torture. But rather, he has found it a comfort. She has not spent much time stomping across these floors, but he feels she belongs there. Certainly more than the imaginary girlfriend or Mrs DiNozzo. And he doesn't mind sharing his space with her. Even if that space has turned slightly awkward tonight.

But Ziva is uncharacteristically inhibited. "I am so sorry," she says, and he's not sure if she is referring to Abelo's three am call, or for crossing their invisible lines. She is clearly as uncomfortable as him—more so—and he doesn't like it. It feels wrong. So he tries to change it.

He crosses over to take her shoes out of her hand, and meets her drowsy eyes. "You don't have to be sorry." About any of it.

"I can go home," she assures him, as if leaving at four in the morning would be no inconvenience to her. "I can call a cab and go home. Because I do not wish to take over. Your house is your thing and I do not wish to take over another thing of yours. I know I take over a lot, and I never want to impose and take over your things. There is a lot of me and I know I spill over, and I am sorry about that. I can call a cab."

God, it's too early for so much thinking and feeling and confessing and self-analysis. What happened to merry, touchy-feely Ziva? "Wow," he sighs as he places her shoes on the floor. "Okay. Um…you don't have to call a cab. You can stay here. And I don't feel like you're taking over."

She doesn't seem to buy it. "But it took me so long to get here," she points out. "And Gibbs forced it on you. And I just do not wish to intrude. I do not want to take you over and have you resent me."

It is then that Tony realizes that she fooled him. And Abelo. Because this is definitely the drunk Ziva who gets very melancholy. Truth be told, he loves them both. But impulsive, touchy-feely Ziva would be so much easier to deal with so early in the morning.

He decides the best course of action is to shut all this down and get her to sleep as soon as possible. He takes her clutch off her and puts it on his nightstand, and then takes her wrist and leads her to the bed.

"I don't resent you, Ziva," he says, and puts his hands on her shoulders as he looks her in the eye. "I like you being here. I do. I'm not just saying that."

She is quiet for a few seconds as she absorbs that. When she does, she gives him a lop-sided smile. "I like you at my house."

"Well…good." He pulls back the covers and shoves her just hard enough to make her sit. Mercifully, lies down and starts arranging herself into optimum sleeping position. He hopes she doesn't mind sleeping in her nice little black dress.

"Do you need to lay down your arms?" he asks.

Ziva frowns and holds her arms out in front of her. "What? I am lying down. I know I am lying down because the room is spinning."

Oh boy. "Weaponry, Ziva," he explains patiently. "How many knives and guns and muskets are on you right now?"

"Oh. Just my…" She trails off as both of her hands dive under the covers and she wriggles around a little bit. Tony purposely diverts his gaze until eventually she pulls out a thigh holster with a knife strapped into it. She holds it up with a grin as if it's a trophy. He takes it off her.

"No weapons in bed," he says and drops it on the nightstand. "That's a rule I have."

Ziva quickly props herself up on her elbow to look up at him, but squeezes her eyes shut and grabs her forehead. He supposes the room is spinning even more now. "Where is your gun?" she asks through her disorientation.

"In the gun safe in the closet."

"That is too far away," she decides. "Where is your backup?"

"Close enough."

"Where?"

"It'll be with me in the living room."

She keeps one eye squeezed shut as she looks up at him through the narrowed other. "Are you going to watch a movie?"

It takes him a moment to follow that, and then he quickly shakes his head. "No. I'll sleep on the couch."

Ziva reaches out and manages to catch hold of his elbow. "Tony, you do not have to—" She cuts herself off, sighs, and then attempts to sit up. "I have made you uncomfortable. I will sleep on the couch. You keep your bed."

He should have seen that coming. "No, just…" He meets her eyes (they're both open now) and her words from before come back at him. Your face makes me happy. It is the best thing that anyone has ever said to him, and yet he knows she probably regrets saying it. She may mean it, but it is unlikely she wanted to tell him during a drunken trip back from a McDonald's. With her loose tongue she has given herself something to regret in the morning. It strikes at his heart to think that she will likely deal with this by becoming aloof towards him or even cranky with him until she has had time to lick her emotional wounds. But if he makes it clear that she doesn't need to be embarrassed because he is completely fine with what's happened (even if he's actually as nervous as a 12-year-old), maybe the aloof/cranky period will be shortened. He hates the aloof/cranky period.

He forces himself to be a grown up, then, and ditches his sleeping on the couch idea. "Okay. Let's just both go to sleep here," he says and thumps the mattress.

She is quiet for a full five seconds as she thinks about that with an expression that is too solemn. "I do not wish to intrude," she tells him again.

And just like that, his nerves fall away. Because he finds her politeness maddening. "You're not," he tells her through partially gritted teeth. "I could have taken you home, but I brought you here."

"Abelo should not have called you."

He rubs his face dramatically and sighs. "Ziva, listen to me. I don't mind being the person you call for stuff. Okay? It's better if you don't do it at three in the morning, but when you gotta call, you gotta call. So just say thanks, and then go to sleep and it'll be fine."

She gives him that small, private smile that makes his insides liquefy and touches his cheek. "Thank you."

Progress! "Okay."

"You are beautiful."

He doubts she meant to say that either. "So are you."

"I am drunk."

He almost laughs. "I noticed."

She pats his cheek and looks at him with…something. Pride? Plain old affection? "You are a very good man."

He appreciates her assessment but she seems to be steering herself further towards the serious side of things, and he is so very tired. "I sure am," he agrees, hoping that a quick agreement will strip away her insistence on talking. And it does for the whole time it takes him to self-consciously take off his jeans and sweater (when has he ever been self-conscious about being half naked—or even naked—in front of her before now?). He gets under the covers on the other side of the bed and turns out the light. The room goes dark, but his eyes soon adjust and he watches her as she rolls to face him, then relaxes. In the silent stillness that follows he replays their conversation from the car until his head spins, and it bothers him that it feels so unfinished. More than that, it bothers him that she has the wrong idea. His common sense tells him to just leave it alone. But tonight his heart is louder.

"No one's going to take me off you," he tells her, and he's so nervous over exposing himself that it comes out in a whisper.

Ziva's eyes open slowly under sleep-heavy lids. "Someone will," she murmurs. She is falling asleep now. "If she is smart, she will."

She doesn't seem to be getting what he was trying to say. And truthfully, that's probably good if they intend to keep the status quo tomorrow morning. He is at a loss over how to respond honestly, even if he wants to. "I don't know any smart women."

She cracks a smile. "Thank you."

He feels a bit better. They're not on the same page, but this feels like a better place to pause their efforts for the evening. And if Ziva were sober, she might even agree. But she's not, so she doesn't.

"Jessica."

"Who?"

"Jessica. Or Mindy. Or Stephanie." Ziva sighs and snuggles into her pillow as she squeezes her eyes shut again. "Something all-American. That's who she will be. All-American and fresh-faced and beautiful. And she will teach kindergarten and play tennis, and she will make perfect Christmas dinners and be a perfect mother." She pauses and he literally hears her swallow. "And I will try not to, but I will hate her."

Again, he is at a loss over how to answer honestly without showing his heart. Even if she has given him a tour of hers. He really wishes she were sober. "Well, how's your forehand volley?"

Her eyes flutter open momentarily before she snuggles into the pillow again. "Hmm?"

It is past time to let this go for the night. "Go to sleep," he tells her.

"I may be sick."

"Don't do it in my bed."

She rolls away from him. "I will move to the couch."

His hand shoots out and holds onto her wrist. "Ziva, stay. Just sleep."

She hesitates, but ultimately she lies back down on the mattress and settles a foot from his chest. "You are a good man, Tony."

"Only to you."

His eyes land on her face just in time to bear witness to the small, private smile she gives to herself. The sight makes his stomach flutter again. God, he really, really likes being able to make her smile. He knows that they will have a lot to talk about in the morning—actually, knowing the two of them, they will have nothing to talk about in the morning—but tonight he will just focus on the warm feeling of hope he carries for the future.

"Tony?"

His stomach turns again. He's had enough of this rollercoaster tonight. He wants to stay on the flat part for a while.

"Yes?" he replies cautiously.

"I know it hurt you," she whispers. "And I am truly sorry for that. But I am glad Wendy broke up with you."

She offers no explanation for her statement which is, on the surface at least, rather offensive. But she has given him enough insight into her thoughts tonight to assure him that offense is the last thing she intends. Because he knows that if he had ended up marrying Wendy, he probably wouldn't have ever crossed Ziva's path. And even with all the frustration, the worry, the pain and exhausting denial their intertwined lives have brought, he still can't fathom ever being without her.

For the first time that night he takes advantage of her intoxication, and reaches over to cup her jaw like she did his. He knows she won't pull away. "I am too," he tells her, and he makes himself hold her gaze in the darkness long enough for her to understand what he is saying. She smiles under sleepy, heavy eyes, and when he's sure they're both still on the rollercoaster high he pulls his hand back.

"Go to sleep, Tony," she tells him.

He rolls his eyes as she closes hers. "What a great idea."

"Sometimes they come to me."