Chapter 6

One Bed

(Tony's POV)

During the ride back to the Navy Yard, I glance at Ziva who's examining a detonation device in an evidence bag. For once I don't feel like filling the silence. I tried to get her to open up and failed miserably so I'm left to dread how far that has set me back. I think about Paris and I wonder if we'll ever be that close again.

One bed. One bed and not enough carpet space for me to give her any elbow room. She offered to sleep on the floor, but there was no way I would allow that. I didn't want to be the one who suggested the obvious. Thankfully she spoke first.

"I do not see why we cannot share the bed. It is not as though we have not slept together before." I snapped my head up and shot her a look then winced and cursed my juvenile reaction to her statement of a simple fact. She hadn't notice, she just continued to look at the bed pensively. It technically was a double, by European standards, much MUCH smaller than the king sized one we had shared undercover. It had seemed like a lifetime ago that we pretended to be married, when in reality we were little more than strangers.

"Are you sure?" I fished to gauge her reaction.

"Of course." She threw her bag on the bed, started to unzip it then looked slyly over and continued, "As I recall you will suffer more than I since I allegedly snore the loudest."

I smiled at her generous admission, but still did nothing to move towards the bed. She became more serious and flatly plead, "Tony, please, we are both tired and I no longer doubt that deep down you are a gentleman."

"Okay."

She started rummaging through her bag then paused. "Do you have a t-shirt that I can borrow? I did not bring appropriate pajamas, and I would not want to give you the wrong impression since you are endeavoring to be chivalrous." She said with a smirk and a slightly raised eyebrow.

I was thankful for the consideration. I needed to keep my mind grounded tonight. I raised a playful eyebrow back and replied, "Unfortunately, I do." I threw her the Ohio State t-shirt that I had intended to sleep in. She whipped me with it on her way into the small excuse for a bathroom. I squeaked in mock pain.

I was left to sleep in just my boxers. I am not modest by any means, it's not in the Italian genetic code to lack confidence, but this was uncharted territory, even for me, especially for me. Oh the irony of sleeping with a breath-taking woman, in Paris no less, who needs from me privacy and restraint while I'm nearly naked and sleeping inches from her. I stripped to to my skivvies then climbed in bed. She came out, wearing my t-shirt, and some long silky pajama bottoms. I was trying not to imagine what the "inappropriate" top would have been. Mental head slap, DiNozzo! When I regained my composure I found myself really studying her. In her I beheld the most beautiful sight that Paris could have afforded. She climbed in bed, showing a shade of awkwardness. It was short-lived as she looked over at me, her head propped up on her elbow. I looked at her with what I hoped was matching intensity, then shot her my signature cheesy smile and with a flick of a raised eyebrow said, "The real question, Agent David, is how honorable will you be this evening?" For that I earned a pillow across my face and a genuine smile and laugh for my efforts.

As she turned away I heard, "Good night, Tony." And there we were, together in Paris, in the same bed, each of us as close to the edge as possible, but still inevitably touching back-to-back. I felt the closeness acutely and after minutes of silence I softly asked, "This okay, Ziva?" Her only response was the comforting noise of snoring and snorting.

I awoke a few hours later to reclaim my sheets, and realized that they had been tossed about. Ziva's face was contorted while she was franticly mumbling in Hebrew and her breathing quickened. She was having a dream. Nightmare? I was at a loss of what to do. She was laying on her back but had twisted around enough that my t-shirt had ridden up on her, dangerously close to upping the evening's rating to PG-13, I decided to pull the shirt back down in case it decided to travel farther up. I didn't want her to wake up feeling exposed. When I carefully propped up on my elbow and reached for her shirt I froze.

How could she have survived that? Through the Paris moonlight I saw many scars, the largest was so long and wide that it could not have been superficial. How many ribs did he break in that one violent motion? How many violent instances defined her summer? I knew he had abused her, hurt her in every way imaginable, tortured her, but she had yet to willingly admit how bad it really was. Of course I knew logically that the marks must be there, but seeing them made her torture all too raw. Since returning she had been careful and guarded, only revealing enough so that we would think she was mending. In that instant I felt a new intensity of anger toward Salim, which was only overshadowed by a great sadness that she had been keeping the pain to herself. She tried her best to appear to be making progress and she had let me become a comfortable part of her day, but she hid her scars well and never shared her nightmares.

I wanted nothing more than to hold her tight, protect her, comfort her, but I couldn't, not yet. I worked my shirt down on her slowly as not to disturb her, then I gently placed my hand on her forehead, smoothed her hair as I had seen Gibbs do when we were going to the hospital in Somalia, and just whispered, "Shhh, your safe, your safe." until her breathing evened and her snorting resumed.

The next time I awoke it was I was lying on my back with a tangle of black hair strewn across my face. She was lying next to me with her head on my heart, and her arm flung over me. I had responded in my sleep so that my arms were holding her against me. I tried not to wake her as I gently moved her hair from my face and smoothed it down her head and back. I gently rubbed her back, as if each touch could somehow erase the scars, the nightmares, the memories.

We lay like that for hours. She had no more nightmares, but now and then would let out a contented sigh. When she awoke in the morning she did not move at first. I was still rubbing her back and saw her eyelids flutter, then close again. Was that a smile on her face? I was hoping she didn't want this intimacy to end any more than I did. I knew this was the most that she had let anyone touch her since her return. She must have been starved for affection, so I vowed that I would do anything I could to make that up to her. She gave me a little squeeze and worked her fingers through my chest hair, thoughtfully. She then lifted her head and I gazed at Ziva in all her exotic beauty. Hair frizzed despite my smoothing, OSU t-shirt twisted and wrinkled, no make up and yes, a drool line from her mouth to my chest. She could not have been more captivating! She noticed the spit line too as she blushed, quickly wiped her mouth and started apologizing profusely.

I just laughed, and said, "Well, you're not the first woman to drool over me!" She playfully scowled and the embarrassment had passed. She then grabbed a pillow and I got the fluffy head slap that I deserved. I retaliated and the pillows flew. We laughed while assaulting each other then we both laid back down, panting from the excitement of battle. I had my hands behind my head, looking up, then my eyes shot over towards her. She was propped up looking at me then met my eyes, quietly said, "Thank you, Tony." Then surprised me by lying back on my chest and hugging me while I responded by putting my arms around her and rubbing her back again. I fell asleep, content.

When I woke there was a note with instructions to meet her at a café later in the day, and to enjoy the sights until then. I hadn't slept much throughout the night but the morning nap left me rejuvenated. I left Paris satisfied that I finally had made some progress.

As I turn into the Navy Yard my mind reluctantly leaves Paris and returns to the reality of dead marines and dirty bombs. I sigh despite myself. We haven't discussed Paris since then, so I can add that to the list of unspoken tensions. I can only hope that she feels at least some of the emotional aftershocks that have bombarded me.