"Bonjour, Mademoiselle David. Dormez-vous bien?" She smiles before she even opens her eyes. The sunlight trickles through her eyelids and warms her bones. "J'ai le petit-dejeuner, mais il semble que tu ne le voudrais pas."
"Since when did you learn French?" She sits up and accepts the tray with thin, scarred arms. Tony swallows and turns away. It hurts to look at what has happened.
"Since ... since this morning," he confesses with a bashful smile, and she laughs throatily, "when I looked up that particular phrase on Google Language Tools and memorised it. I hope I got the pronunciation OK."
"You got it ... how do you say it? Um, down stroke. Yes."
He doesn't have the heart to correct her: she seems so content and childlike this morning, and he does not want the bubble to stain and burst. And he'd found a forlorn, charred book in her apartment – so long ago now, it seems – of English idioms, and it had broken his heart.
"Did you sleep well?"
"Yes, thank you." She lies so quickly, the polite little thing falling from her tongue with such grace. "You?"
"Great, thanks." His heart had been pounding all night – fear, mostly – and at half past three he had given up trying to rest and had instead paced the floor next to her bed until dawn broke. He watched her sleeping form as she took what solace she could.
What perfect liars we are, he thinks, with a humourless smirk half-reaching his lips. So utterly compatible.
And then his reason kicks in and he tells himself that this is what makes them such good partners.
He gave up believing himself a long, long time ago.
She begs him to let her run. Her hopeful plea is laced with cunning, and the smirk shines through.
"Tony, you know what will happen if you don't let me run, don't you?"
"No, but does it involve you and me and nudity?" An awkward silence falls, before Tony breaks through it with a burbled "Hey, that rhymes," and he realises how much has changed. Once, such a joke would settle lightly and snugly on each of their souls; a perfect fit. Now, she looks about to cry.
He wants to touch her hair, run his fingers through the curls, but it would only remind her of everything that happened. Everything that she lost. And however much he loves her, he cannot do that to her.
He has done so much already.
He takes a shaky step towards her, but she looks up too sharply, too quickly, and he does not know what to do. He burns in her gaze.
"When did this happen, Tony? Not to me ... to us. How we used to be." And somehow, she deserves the truth more than anyone, ever.
"It happened when ... when I let you down, Ziva. I ... I killed him, and I shouldn't have. There's always another choice. It never has to be."
"No," she says, and her voice is sweet and regretful, "it never has to be. There's always something else."
The wall is soft and reassuring behind him, and he leans back until the skin of his neck is cooled by the velvety paint. He suddenly feels exhausted and wants to curl into a little ball at her feet. So he does.
"Tony, please don't cry. I'm sorry. It sounded too harsh, but it's ... it's true, and we both know it. You made a mistake. But so did I."
He doesn't ask, but he wants to, and perhaps that is the same thing.
"I wanted to kill you. You are - were - are my partner, and I should never...you were my partner."
She kneels down next to him and, like a cat, curls around him in such a bruised and graceful manner that he sniffs deeply and tries to meet her eye.
"I'm sorry, Ziva."
"Yes," she says, and her gaze is pensive, "I am sorry too."
A world away, a case is solved, a cheek is kissed, black lips smile, blue eyes do not waver.
We all spin without you. We will all be fine.
Days pass like raindrops. They fall to the ground and fade, are forgotten. Food is eaten, beds are slept in and bodies become drowsy and caged with something that isn't quite comfort. He tries not to notice how she seems so effortlessly sensual. How she values things in such a way that he clenches inside, somewhere low in his stomach. How her hair seems softer and curlier than before. How he strokes it each night until he realises what he's doing. Because Tony does not fall in love.
And suddenly, he does, and he cannot tell the difference.
It happens at four twenty four in the afternoon. She is lying on the couch with a patchwork blanket over her rising chest and he watches her sleepily for a while. She started snoring in the middle of a film and he muted the sound and listened to her breathing. It made him smile and feel so home.
And suddenly, she is awake and staring right at him with peaceful, unassuming eyes and he wants to kiss her. And the afternoon is so golden, and the air so dappled, and he can smell her scent so clearly, something spicy and fragrant like amber that clings to her skin, but what he can sense underneath that seduction is soap, white and bubbled and oh god she's so beautiful, ohgodohgod her lips are red and swollen from her sleep, and the imprint of a cushion is still etched creamily across her cheek, and her hair is messy and sunlight glows through it like a halo, and her eyes are sleepy and smiling.
And so he kisses her.
And suddenly limbs are rising and falling over each other, hands are clutching anything they can find, lips tear from flesh and moan, almost unwillingly, fabric is crumpled and rumpled and gone, and oh! there it is.
***
He stares down at her with a childlike wonder in his eyes, and she does not smile, but bites her lip and cries with the relief. And even though they are hot and tangled on a messy couch on a patchwork blanket, after slumber and idleness and a half-life that somehow seems to seep, he bends and captures her lips with his own, and smoothes the tears away like so many times before, and she clings to him like a survivor in a storm.
She tastes like oranges brought on a tray to a still form in a sunny bed. Like the coffee she drank whilst she smiled at him so drowsily. The coconut that he had such trouble breaking into, and the honey and ginger drink she concocted with a happy laugh and a vague reasoning that he didn't quite catch. Like a thousand dreams of her. And she does not scream, but she moans, thickened and blunted, and whimpers so sweetly that any coherent thoughts he might have had crumple and flutter into fiery golden ashes.
And oh, how he makes her feel, pulsing and aching and hopelessly soft, terrifies and delights.
***
Soon, it is over, and he collapses on her, panting and slick. He feels her chest rising beneath him, and tries to remember the last time that his world was uncomplicated. He realises it is right before he fell in love, and the thought makes him smile into shy skin.
She entwines hot and trembling fingers into honey coloured hair and feels him breathing inside her. Dark eyes lose their sharpness, just for a second, as she submits to this beautiful welcoming. He kisses her, once, on the lips, and she responds so hesitantly that it breaks his heart.
"Oh, god, Ziva, I am so, so – oh god, oh god - I can't, I can't believe – I can't have done this to you, I am so, so sorry, oh god, my god," and his voice trails away as her eyes speak for her. "Oh, Ziva."
"Thank you."
"Don't, please don't – I can't believe – I'm a monster, how could I just – you're so – so – frail, and I just – I didn't even – oh god."
He looks at her, smiling, trapped underneath his weight, naked and unashamed, brazen and curiously guileless. He feels her small hands flicker lightly over his back – a butterfly, a ghost, a woman he adores - and he gently lowers his skin next to her. He tries to ignore sensations. He focuses solely on her voice.
And, oh, those words.
"Tony. I feel...I feel home." And eyes meet, and so do tears and lips and fingertips. Words are lost.
I adore you.
She is so sweetly lacking, and his love is so abundant.
Sex! Finally...like I said to a couple of people, I don't think TIVA sex will ever come as part of a long and completely healthy relationship, but rather it would happen once – quick and sticky, so to speak – and they'd try and build from there. I hope people don't think it's too early, or not the right way, or anything, but I felt it fitted.
Hope you have a nice weekend, and please review (just don't flame – please! I'm so nervous about this chapter!)