DISCLAIMER: Neither the TV show 'NCIS' nor the 'Harry Potter' book series belong to me.
"Did you decide to plan this behind my back?"
Gibbs was annoyed - now, how surprising. Tony and Ziva had been the last to arrive (for good reason) and they'd rang the doorbell to meet the receiving end of Gibbs' glare when the man opened the door. Tony guessed that the late-time visitors were enough of a nuisance for the man to close the normally open invitation into his home.
Tony was carrying Mary in his arms – he couldn't just leave her sleeping in the car – and that must have been Gibbs' only incentive not to growl any louder.
"We brought the beer." Ziva stated off-handily, gesturing to the packs in her hands. Good reason, alright.
Gibbs rolled his eyes, but he stepped back, leaving the door wide open for them to enter. Tony quickly found the couch to put the little girl in, satisfied that there was no one in the living room. He supposed everyone was in the basement - that, in combination with Gibbs' freshly dressed t-shirt and exercise pants, told him that their boss, anointed the unwilling host for the past-two-a.m. 'meeting', had obviously chosen to be a bad one.
Tony followed Ziva down the stairs, leaving every door in his trail open so that he could hear Mary clearly should she wake up – and when he reached the lowest floor of Gibbs' house, he realized that the only ones in the group not looking uncomfortable were Ducky, Abby and himself.
Jenny was awkwardly trying not to stare in utter fascination at the wooden boat that took up most of the space (and failing, since the way her eyes were constantly sliding from it to the wall and back pretty much spoke for itself). Jimmy and McGee were nervous - they'd never been there before, as far as Tony knew, and if they had, the experience had clearly not relaxed them enough to stand in any way but stiffly.
That was funny to the senior agent, but before he could make the situation even worse, he heard Gibbs making use of the stairs to join them. Tony stepped aside, approaching his partner, who was leaning against a wall, arms crossed and gaze refusing to fall on a specific part of the room.
Tony remembered that her brother had died there, and the amusement died quickly.
Gibbs crossed his arms, a lonely spokes-person in the middle of the room. "Whose bright idea was this?" He glared at them all briefly before settling on Tony with a glower.
The senior agent held up his hands in surrender. "Not guilty this time."
"It was my idea, Gibbs!" Abby said cheerfully. Her narrowed eyes, however, warned her father-like figure that he ought to choose his next step carefully.
Gibbs closed his eyes, his face pinched and his nose inhaling very slowly. "Fine." He grumbled, snatching a piece of sandpaper and approaching the boat. He could never say no to Abby, and, since they weren't all being thrown out the door, his attitude was a monument to the fact that he was going to stand-by until he felt that it was appropriate for him to do so.
Tony watched as Jenny gravitated unconsciously and curiously toward a place in the room where she had a clear view of Gibbs' handiwork. He saw his boss steal an inconspicuous glance at that, and he either had a very vivid imagination, or Gibbs' lips had turned upwards as his eyebrows did the same. DiNozzo could even see his posture straightening – and he was vaguely and suspiciously uncomfortable with watching that. Even if he loved gossip and it loved him back, there was something more than a little disturbing in actually seeing either Gibbs or Jenny like that. Both of them together just made it worse.
Kids weren't supposed to watch mom and dad's secret interactions, after all.
"You wanna say what was it that you wanted, exactly, Abs?" Tony prompted, eager to keep his thoughts away from his bosses.
Abby tugged on her pigtails – she liked being the center of attention, usually (hell, it wasn't a secret that that was one of the reasons she'd fallen for McGee – he was sweet, adoring, and completely devoted to anyone he was with), but today stress was running too high for anyone to be comfortable in her position.
So her defensive protocol kicked into gear, and she crossed her arms, glaring at everyone. They all better know not to upset her even further. "What I want is not to go home without having a proper conversation with all of you! It was not a normal week and I want to talk with people who understand that!" She pouted, lip quivering. "And I know you'll help with it, because you're all very careful with sensitive-"
A dry clatter cut her off. Every head turned to Palmer, who was gingerly picking up a piece of carved wood (maybe a table or chair leg) from the floor and putting it back on the table. From where he'd probably knocked it off. "Sorry." He mumbled, fixing his glasses and leaning against the same table, in about the same way he'd been before. Gibbs rolled his eyes, gaze returning to the boat.
"Anyway," Abby stomped her foot, reclaiming focus. "I don't wanna go home without talking. And I know that none of you are very big talkers, except maybe Tony and Ducky – not that I'm saying that Ducky and Tony talk too much, but you know, Tony always says this and that, and Ducky always has an interesting story; but it's not that Tony is always saying silly things, because, although he does that a lot, he also sometimes has important things to say – not that it's only sometimes-" She rambled, losing focus quickly.
"Abs…" Gibbs breathed tiredly, rubbing his forehead.
Her head snapped to him, already nodding. "Right. I just wanna… talk." And she fell silent, staring at each and every one of them expectantly.
And everyone else kept quiet too.
She huffed, and McGee tried to prevent any further escalation. "But… What do you exactly want to talk about, Abby?" He asked tentatively. "I mean, I understand that we should probably spend time discussing it, but… What exactly is there to say to this?"
The 'this' incorporated so much it hurt Tony's head to think about it. The whole week could fit into that. And he just wanted to sleep.
Abby seemed to agree, because her shoulders slumped and she dropped lightly to the floor in defeat, sitting cross-legged with her hands on her cheeks and her elbows resting on the inside of her thighs.
Shrugging, Tony figured it was pointless to tire himself even further. He mimicked her, stretching as his butt hit the ground. Ziva rolled her eyes – but she seemed inclined to do the same, so he wasn't really surprised when she slid down the wall to join him, hands hugging her knees. McGee stared, and then, (peer pressure was impressive, even if the target was about twenty years off the mark for the correct age of its use) he sighed, crossing his arms over his legs as he sat down too.
Gibbs looked between the four of them. "You do realize this place hasn't been cleaned in God-knows how long, don't you?" Tony's answer was to lean back against the wall, his back supporting him in the same way as Ziva's. Gibbs shrugged and sighed in a very what-am-I-gonna-do-with-them fashion and turned back to the boat.
Abby was tensed as she spoke again. "I just… I don't want to go home. Not yet." That was probably about when Gibbs gave up the thought off chucking them all out. The groan his boss released was Tony's first clue to it.
The senior agent let his eyes wonder across the room. Jenny's gaze was still bright on Gibbs' newly working hands, and she was leaning over a beam of the boat on its other side. Ducky was looking around the tiny space with his arms crossed, as if looking for any differences since the last time he'd been there. Palmer was still standing awkwardly next to the table, careful movements in an attempt to avoid any more accidents.
Tony realized that they were all positioned in a rather strange way – Gibbs was in the center, while each and every one of their positions were strewn facing him, in whatever tiny, unimpeded space they could find.
And so that was how they stayed for the next several hours. Their tight-knit group, gathered 'round at Gibbs' place, like the dysfunctional family they were. They had troubles, sure – Tony only had to glance at Jenny for his thoughts to be brought there – and they'd be dealt with appropriately and eventually. That night was hardly the moment for any of them to mention it – Jenny was one of their own, and anything suggesting otherwise was to be firmly ignored; at least for then.
They'd had a strange week, and, for some reason, the scratching sound of Gibbs' sanding work was the perfect background noise to their collective and similar thoughts.
It was silent for a while. At some point, Ziva's head found its way to his shoulder. He'd glanced at her – she'd been wide awake. No one could seem to be able or to want to fall asleep. He'd taken her hand and held on tightly, though he certainly prayed that Gibbs didn't notice a thing.
He didn't know why they all needed this. Why they just had to be in Gibbs' house, all together, quietly munching on their respective wonderings. What he did know was that Gibbs was the leader – Ducky's age seniority and Jenny's pay-grade status were strangely ignored. Gibbs was the one they all turned to for advice and support and that was no secret for anyone that knew them. That probably accounted for the location of their impromptu (well, impromptu for Gibbs – the rest of them had it planned for a couple of hours already) encounter.
But he didn't want to think. Maybe he had to – the last couple of days probably seriously required it – but he wasn't feeling like it. Not right then. He needed the quiet on the outside and on the inside of his mind.
He needed Ziva's warm body leaning against his, and her chocolate curls spilling on his chest.
Tony glanced at Ziva, who was looking out the window of the car.
He didn't know what to do with her. He didn't know what to do with his feelings for her. Hell, he didn't know what to make of her or her feelings, even. She seemed to swing either way, depending on what her emotional state was – that was how it was ever since he'd met her, and he'd taken a ridiculous amount of time realizing it. Forget about understanding it.
For some reason, however, ever since she'd remembered… whatever it was, things were- different. She felt warmer, somehow, and more open than he'd ever seen her. That was why he'd wondered whether her memories were connected with their kiss.
Oh yeah, then there was that, too.
He'd kissed her, and she hadn't killed him afterwards. He considered that an impressively big accomplishment, if he did say so himself. True – she'd immediately stepped back, eyes oozing panic, and neither of them had been quite sure what to do. So they stared at each other, panting slightly (Tony feels the need to remind the reader that it had been nothing but a peck on her lips), absolutely terrified about their next course of action.
Then they'd bolted out the door, and hung on to any semblance of normalcy and that-never-happened policy they could find.
Of course, Tony wasn't quite stupid enough to think nothing had changed. Boldness (homicide worthy, stupidity driven, moronic filled, daredevil-like, playing with serious fire kind, boldness) had told him to let himself give in to his sudden urge regarding Ziva's very enticing butt, and he'd quite dumbly carried out the instructions.
Had it happened a mere forty-eight hours previously, he would have a broken femur, a handful of cracked ribs and a body-covering coat of spanking new bruises. Instead, he got a smack right back.
No one changed quite that much without a reason – and certainly not when trying to pretend certain things had never taken place. And they didn't smile that much either, like she had throughout the whole day.
So he decided to resolve things for once and for all later that day, at home that evening. She knew the plan – he knew she did. Ziva could be oblivious to many things, and try her hardest to push things to the back of her mind, desperately refusing to think about them ever again – but she was anything but stupid. She knew they needed to talk; she knew they couldn't ignore whatever it was that was going on between them any longer; and she was a lot more enthusiastic of the idea than before. He knew that too.
Harry's dinner invitation might have delayed the time of the conversation, but it was still taking place and they were both well aware of that. So, when Tony drove directly to his place, Mary in the back seat and snoring, and Ziva silently watching the dark streets flow by through the glass, his partner didn't question a thing.
Instead, when he parked, she stepped out of the vehicle and grabbed all their things while Tony quietly and carefully multitasked picking Mary up and closing the car.
That was obviously the delaying until the inevitable moment where he found himself staring at an awkward-looking Ziva, who was standing in the middle of the living room, seemingly unable to do anything else but to fidget and avoid his gaze.
"Right." He muttered. "I'm gonna need a beer for this."
Ziva's lips twitched, but the uncertainty never left her eyes. "Make that two, please."
Tony all but bolted to the kitchen, sneaking a glance as Ziva dropped down to his couch. She looked as tired as he felt. And that only made him feel even more exhausted.
When he (finally) sat down with her, he readily and very smartly realized he had absolutely nothing to say. And also no idea of how to say it.
So, if he, the man of all the words, was at a lost for them, he was understandably shocked senseless at her next, bold sentence. "You kissed me." She stated bluntly.
For a handful of seconds, he contemplated either spitting out his bear in dramatic, movie-worthy idiocy, or staring at her in silence. Since the first one was more prone to ruin the unusually serious mood between the two of them (which he was actually in serious need of), the latter won out.
"Yes. Yes, I did." But still, he wouldn't be Tony without giving a stupid answer.
Ziva rolled her eyes, slumping slightly into the couch as her nervousness was somewhat subsided. He hoped she knew that he'd undo that quickly enough. He sat down next to her, handing her the bottle in his hand. Her first swig gulped down about a quarter of the liquid. Well, he was always glad to see that he could make people comfortable at his home.
He drummed his fingers on the outside glass of the object in his hand. His partner's silence probably meant the bold and the brave had hurriedly fled to somewhere without Tony-shaped complications. "You know, I'm not sure how you'll be getting home. We did drink a fair amount at Gibbs'. More is probably not advisable." He said, gesturing to his bottle – which was, very surprisingly, already halfway empty. "And your car is still at the Navy Yard."
He was giving her an out. And opportunity to take it all back, to move to the next conversational topic on and forget what had happened earlier. They could keep acting normally, like nothing had ever happened, and no one would ever be any the wiser.
She glanced at him before taking another long gulp. He could actually see her steeling herself. "Beer does not count. Besides," She murmured, and her reddened cheeks told him that she either had a really low tolerance for the liquid, or that she was about to say something he'd be very interested to hear. "maybe I am not planning on going home tonight."
She had certainly not taken the outing.
Suddenly, it was very wrong to still have half-a-foot of space between them. Tony hurried to correct that.
His beer clumsily found the coffee table that Tony knew he had placed in the living room a few years earlier. He knew he used it regularly, except his brain was a little too muddled to remember it. And he wasn't exactly looking at it anyway.
He took his partner's empty bottle and settled it next to his. He moved closer to her, shoulders inches from each other. He was staring, but she wasn't staring back. Instead, she was inspecting her feet, and Tony was quite unable to neither identify nor deal with what rushed through him at the sight of her embarrassed figure.
"Really?" He mumbled. She could feel his breath brushing in a quiet rush against her cheek. "What are you planning on?"
She looked up, and found that to be a mistake. What was meant to be a quick, sneaking glance was frozen in place and time. His green eyes were compelling – too much so that she couldn't stop trying to figure them out.
"That depends." She was leaning toward him, and she neither knew why or how. That was usually the case with Tony anyway.
"On what, Ziva?" Her name fell from his lips in a way that made her stomach stir in pleading for whatever it was that she thought he could give her. That was not what she wanted to wonder about at the moment.
It was so eerily quiet – she heard his breathing and his heartbeat louder than she heard her own. A rustling when his feet shuffled so that he could get closer (there couldn't possibly be any more space between them, yet she was still irritatingly far from him). A tap as his hand found hers. A hum at the skin-to-skin contact when he sneaked his fingers through her own.
His face was smoldering – if she were a lesser woman, she'd have found it too much to bear. He was wearing that unreadable expression that he used whenever he was hiding actual, real feelings that he genuinely didn't want anyone to know about. Lips stretched not in a smile, not in a line, but a sort of peaceful look that didn't correspond to his actual thoughts.
She liked that face, for some reason. It linked him to her, because she was exactly like him when it came to self-protection – she'd hide with a vigor that encouraged the most determined of men to quit trying. They would never find her.
Except he still tried. And she still tried too, when it came to him. And they were both aware that they could succeed – that, for each other, they were one of the very restricted amount of people that could.
"I-" She stopped. She could not answer that with words. She didn't know how.
He sensed that. A speculative expression flickered among his eyes. He stood up, and her eyes followed him as he stretched and smiled. He offered her a hand. "Wanna dance?"
His grin was enticing, his hand warm and his body inviting. She very much wanted to. He had taken off his jacket and tie, and part of his chest was visible. That may have contributed to her decision.
She silently used his hand as an anchor to stand up, and then she was inches from his lips. And she couldn't decide to look at either that or his eyes, because her body was fighting with her brain about it.
Her breathing was heavy, his pupils wide and dark, and her skin unnaturally cold at his touch. It took a while for her to realize it was the other way around – he was almost feverish.
"There is no music." She murmured. Her chest was brushing his with every time she inhaled. She noticed that whenever that that happened, Tony's eyes would flash and the green would become brighter and deeper.
He pulled her one step back. "Who needs it?" His voice was low, and it reverberated through her very efficiently.
Ziva was suddenly quite aware that the purpose of dancing was less about the actual action and more about the physical proximity it brought on. But the rules of society that declared lying improper advised her not to say that she was in any way against it.
He took another step back and they were in a more open space, without the small table hindering them. His hands left hers (they became suddenly cold) and found her waist. Her arms wrapped around his neck, and her concentration was vaguely stolen from his face. They were like a couple of teenagers awkwardly wondering where this would lead.
"Ziva…" He breathed – she wasn't aware that dancing with her required that much of a physical effort. But that didn't impede her from either liking the sound or instinctively leaning closer because of it. "What I said earlier… I meant it. It's… actually important that I know you know that." She knew what he meant. His very awkward 'I have feelings for you' sentence.
He took a step forward this time, and his arms were tightening on her hips. Her mouth opened barely to breathe, her nose no longer enough. "I know."
Her nose touched his cheek when he took another step. His hand brushed a lock of hair behind her ear, and then fell to grasp hers and pull it from over his shoulder. He smiled – she really liked his smile. That was her excuse.
He'd kissed her before – she'd kiss him now.
Any air still wondering when it would disappear from in-between their scorching bodies whooshed out of there. She pressed herself into him, the gesture and his own temperature warming her immediately. Her lips met his, and he wasted no time in responding.
It was still quiet – but her ears didn't seem to know that. Then again, she suspected that what she was hearing had little to do with actual noise.
Her hands flew to his neck again. As if they weren't close enough, Tony made full use of his power over her body, and his arms hooked her around the waist, making sure she was as glued to him as she could be without merging.
She remembered now why she had had trouble leaving the Observation Room earlier. She was almost hungrily and urgently (though not very gently) craving him, and she was anything but dependent. The only problem with that was that she only managed to let go of his mouth when they were both needing oxygen.
Her eyes remained shut (she did not remember closing them). She felt his forehead touching hers, and she processed, somewhere far, far in the back of her mind, that he was breathing like there was no tomorrow. Her hand was somehow still tight in his.
"I wanna do that again." Tony's gasped sentence was probably the first thing he'd been able to say.
She exhaled a laughing breath, hitting his arm with disheartened and weak abandon. "You are an idiot. And I am saying that too often for comfort."
"Still wanna do it again." His grin was nearly blinding when she finally opened her eyes. "Nice nap?"
She kissed him again to find that it was an effective way of shutting him up.
"God." He muttered when they parted again, and he released a sound that was scarily close to a purr when she ran a hand through his hair. His arms wrapped around her waist more properly and more tightly, and her cheek pressed against his shoulder.
"Tony?" She called. The way his body was cocooning her was leading her to an almost sleep-like comfort, but there was something she desperately needed to say before she lost coherency.
He made a noise of acknowledgement in the back of his throat – her go-ahead signal, she guessed. "I- have feelings too." She admitted.
There was a pause. Then she felt his chest shaking when he barely contained his laughter. A well-aimed kick to his toes was enough for the amusement to die. "I know." He told her more seriously, sobering up. "But I think that's not exactly the right word, don't you?"
She slowly withdrew from him, and the way his eyes were keen and burning made any words of the subject-changing variety die in her throat. "No. Maybe not."
His lips pulled up in a real, small smile that he reserved for the kind of occasions when he knew to be serious without anyone telling him to. "That's good. It means we're on the same page, then."
Hopefully. It was a rather loaded word, and Ziva had no interest in analyzing it right then.
She just wanted to think about him. He made sure she got what she wanted, obviously, because that was just what he did.
A few hours later, Ziva found herself suffering the smoothest and most confortable waking up she'd had in… too long.
She was content, uncharacteristically relaxed, and warm. And there was something rather settled inside her. Like there was a troubling matter that had been bothering and upsetting her in a while that had disappeared. The cozy chest underneath her probably qualified.
She was almost literally wrapped in him – his arms, his legs, his ruffled hair (she had a thing with his hair). Her cheek was pressed against his shoulder-blade, and her nose nuzzled his neck. Normally, when the small amount of available air was limited like that, she would be induced to panic. But she, for some reason, rather found Tony her own personal source of oxygen.
Oh, God. That was so cheesy. She did not do cheesy.
Still didn't stop her from relishing the way the hand poised on the back of her head put her every nerve on a slow-burning fire.
She came to the conclusion that there was only one discomfort with her at the moment – she was thirsty. And, unfortunately, it was the kind of thirsty that awoke her, kept her fidgeting, and made her toes curl over the agonizing dryness of her throat.
Regretfully, she gently pried Tony's arm from her torso. His eyes tightened, but they did not open. She rolled his legs away from hers - gingerly so as not to wake him – and his frown deepened, his mouth eliciting an annoyed grumble.
When she finally managed to free herself from his embrace, she was a little light-headed at the display of emotions that had so openly ran across his face.
She stumbled into the kitchen, blearily looking around – it had to be around three in the morning – and managed to come across the glass door compartment. And that was where she was when she heard the small footsteps behind her.
Mary was awake, and rubbing her red-rimmed eyes in the poorly lit entrance of the division. She was wearing one of Tony's old t-shirts – it reached the middle of her lower legs – and she'd been sleeping in a shabby sleeping bag Tony had had stashed somewhere.
"I am sorry." Ziva whispered, coming out of her surprise. "I did not mean to wake you."
Mary shook her head, making her way to her. "You didn't." She said quietly, perching herself on a chair. "I… was having trouble sleeping."
Ziva paused, remembering Mary's aversion to milk, before she placed a glass of water in front of the little girl. "Would you like to tell me why?" The Israeli offered, sitting down with her own drink and scrutinizing her.
She seemed unwilling to share, and Ziva was reminded of herself when something bad was upsetting her. She would close off, keep it all in, and let whatever problem was gnawing at her insides silently destroy her. Her logical follow-up to that thought was simple: she quite refused to let Mary go through the same.
But Ziva knew better then to force her to abdicate her silence. Instead, she switched to light, uncompromising and non-dangerous talk that would warm Mary to the Israeli. "You know, Tony does not usually invite people to his apartment. You must be very special." She complimented with a small smile. She watched as the little girl sipped her water, her cheeks warming a little in appreciation for her comment.
"Tony's very nice." She answered, tugging on a stray lock that had fallen over the front of her shoulder.
"Yes, he is." Ziva hummed in agreement. Then she paused, reconsidering. She wanted to be fair to Tony in her words. "When he wants to be, anyway." She corrected, and that drew a small grin from Mary.
"You have to be special as well, though." The little girl poised her elbows on the table, plopping her chin on her hands. "You're in his house too."
Ziva blinked, taken aback. Well, Mary certainly had a way to turn a conversation around. "I guess I am." She smiled, maybe a little wider than fully required.
She took a good look at Mary. She was hesitant, and nervous, and carefully collected. Ziva knew that way of being, and she didn't wish it on anyone else, much less her. She was a small child that did not deserve to carry such a burden.
The Israeli slowly realized that Tony wasn't exactly the only one who'd formed an unhealthy attachment to the little girl.
Ziva allowed a few moments of silence to comfort the two of them to each other, and let Mary relax her built-in defenses. "Would you like to tell me now why you could not sleep?" She asked softly, when the little girl seemed happy enough.
Mary carefully set her glass back on the table. Ziva refilled it, and the water hit the bottom of it with an eerie amount of noise in the thick silence. "I- I had a nightmare."
Damn. Ziva winced. She didn't wonder what the nightmares were about. She had a funny feeling that she didn't need to ask. "Would you… like to talk about it?" She swallowed the grimace that threatened to form at the words. She was terrible at this, and she knew it. To talk with Mary about the trauma she was going through, no matter how selfish it sounded, was the last thing she wanted to do.
Mary shook her head vigorously. "No!" She exclaimed, so loud that Ziva glanced at the door uneasily, wondering if Tony would wake up. Mary didn't seem to notice, as she kept her eyes cast downwards and her fingers strained around the cup.
"I will not make you, then." She promised, rubbing the back of the little girl's hand lightly.
At that, Mary's tense shoulders slumped, more relaxed, her eyes stole a glance at Ziva and she bit her lower lip. "I just… don't want to think about it again." She backtracked, her voice lower this time.
Silence fell, like a precariously balanced acrobat on a thin line. Ziva was cautious of any words she might say – and, with slightly embarrassed surprise, she realized how much better Tony was at this. Then again, Tony didn't seem to have quite as much trouble with dealing with people as she did.
"Mary?" She called in a light tone, snapping the little girl's ware attention into focus. Ziva smiled reassuringly to pacify her. "When I had nightmares, my mother would read a story to me." It wasn't completely untrue. Before her father's indiscretions and her mother's consequent departure, Rivka's voice had soothed her whenever she had nightly terrors. "Would you like me to tell you a story? You need to sleep." She advised, giving her a proper reason for her offer.
She blinked up at the Israeli, and, for some reason, it made Ziva nervous and eager to backtrack. But then she nodded as enthusiastically as she could at that hour of the night, and Ziva followed the little girl out of the kitchen and to Tony's office, where he'd cleared enough space for her sleeping bag.
"My mom used to read to tell me stories too…" Mary told her. She still looked uneasy about the subject, but the fact that she was willing to talk about it eased Ziva's worry a fair bit. She hoped that when it came a time where she grasped what this meant completely, either Tony or her would be with her, so that she had fewer reservations with letting it all out.
Mary sunk into the fabric, fidgeting to her preferred position, and Ziva sat beside her, crossed-legged. "Well, you have not heard this story, I am very sure of it."
"Why?"
"Because it is Israeli." Ziva answered, plopping her chin on her hands, her elbows supported by her knees.
"I don't know Israeli, Ziva." Mary answered, a small pout on her lips. Ziva found herself grinning at the expression.
"In Israel, you speak Hebrew, not 'Israeli'. And do not worry, tateleh." Ziva stopped abruptly, startled at what she'd just said. Her great-grandmother used to call her that as a child, and Ziva's head unconsciously shook to rid herself of the fog in her mind at that. "I will speak in English." She said softly.
"No." She whined slightly. Ziva blinked in confusion. "Stories are no good translated. Tell it in Hebrew. Maybe I can learn some words." She said brightly.
Ziva chuckled. She liked Mary and her antics. Sometimes, the little girl reminded her of Tony.
So Ziva told the story in her native language, and - while she was positive that the most that Mary had picked up on were the words 'shalom' and 'ken' - she thought that the little girl had managed to enjoy the half of the narrative she was awake to listen to. But she hadn't taken much time to fall asleep, and so, when Ziva found herself lingering a bit more than necessary by the door and staring at her, she was a little sorry to go.
She made her way back to Tony's room, and she managed to keep her blood equally spread in her body at the thought that she'd slept (and maybe done a bit more than that) there.
And, for the first time since she'd allowed seldom used parts of her brain to guide her actions, she remembered with a much too high amount of terror, Gibbs.
What were they supposed to tell him? The man controlled the whole chessboard of all their lives, and that was because he knew all and had all the resources to make sure things always went his way. Good God, they were so dead.
Strangely, those thoughts were quick to leave her when she crossed the threshold of his bedroom and set eyes on him.
In her absence, he'd spread more freely, and there was now an arm dangling from the side of the bed. The other was hidden by her pillow, and she paused to take it all in.
Shaking her head, she sneaked under the covers again, inching closer to the places Tony's body heat had warmed.
Her partner cracked an eye open, and there was a small grin in his face at the sight of her tangled hair and his rumpled sheets. "Morning already? I knew you got up with the chickens, but I didn't think it was this early." He asked sleepily, smile broadening when she made a face, looking frazzled.
"I am sorry I woke you." She apologized. "And no. Not yet." She ordered her limbs to relax into the mattress and pillow.
"That's good, because it's entirely too early for you to get out of this bed." He said, smirking as her torso was pulled to him - a prompt given by Tony's tugging arm.
Ziva rolled her eyes, but she couldn't exactly deny that either his arm or its movement was unwelcome. "Go to sleep." She told him, making an effort to follow her own advice.
Closing her eyes seemed to be the wrong way to do that, because Tony was kissing her eyelids as soon as she did. Fighting the smile, she opened her eyes and pretended to be annoyed. "Is everything I do an excuse for you?"
His grin was completely unabashed. It always was, so she didn't know why she was noting that in the first place. "Absolutely."
"Of course." Her eyes were beginning to feel a little heavier.
His own eyes closed while his lips formed another smile. She liked it, she decided. Usually, when she was sleeping in the same bed with someone, she would turn her back to them. She didn't seem to have such issues with Tony.
"Hey, Ziva?" He called in a murmur, eyelids still shut. "Do me a favor. Don't go anywhere until I get up." He opened one eye, and gave her a slight grin. "I like waking up to pretty women." He was such a moron.
But then the smile vanished and the eye closed, and she was free to see the tension manifesting itself in the form of a slight frown on his forehead. Maybe her past actions (mainly, the way she fled like a rat from a cat every time Tony got just a little closer) weren't in her favor when it came to just… being there.
Her hand brushed his cheek. "I am here." She whispered.
"And you're not going anywhere." He mumbled. Her lips tugged up, and her eyes blearily opened again. She kissed his cheek with deliberate delay of her lips on his skin.
She switched to a better position to face his half-slumbering expression. His eyes were closed, and she watched him falling asleep again. Her fingers ghosted over his head, barely brushing the tuffs of hair sticking up, and she snuggled closer to herself and him.
Gibbs or not, only someone incredibly stupid would be willing to give this up. That or someone who didn't know what they were missing out on.
"No, I am not." She answered quietly. And he was either still awake or he could kiss her nose in his sleep.