A/N: I move into my dorm room in nine -NINE- days. Holy canoli, batman. This is more of a bridge chapter than anything else, because I thought Tony and Ziva really needed a friend after the last chapter I put them through. This picks up directly after chapter seven. Keep the peace, much love, always, Kit!

DISCLAIMER: I have food poisoning -not copyrights. Please don't sue.

Chapter VIII

By the time they leave the church, it is almost nightfall. The streetlights are casting a warm glow on the sidewalks as cars drive past with people intent on getting home for dinner. There are families with children laughing nearby and a young couple is strolling hand in hand on the other side of the street having just left the corner bistro. Everything and everyone continues to go on, unaware of the emotional turmoil that had just transpired in the quiet church.

Tony holds the heavy wooden door open as Ziva exits, hitching her bag higher up on her shoulder restlessly.

"Have you eaten?" he asks suddenly, and she pauses, glancing back toward him, her eyebrows furrowing together.

"No," she says slowly, almost as if asking a question in response, as if she's uncertain of his motives.

He smiles reassuringly. "You wanna go grab a burger? My treat."

And she feels her lips curve up in a smile as she nods, "Okay."

And Tony beams at her, offering his elbow for her to take, but she waves him off, chuckling.

...

He takes her to a place called Samson's –a modest little establishment with red vinyl barstools and an old-fashioned jukebox that delights Ziva. The air is heavy with the smell of frying oil and sounds of burgers sizzling amidst the noise of conversation. The black and white checkered linoleum is shiny and a waitress, dressed in civilian clothes and an apron, moves between the stainless steel tables easily while balancing a tray of milkshakes.

Ziva turns to Tony. "You didn't tell me they had milkshakes."

He grins, steering her toward the counter. "I figured you'd want to be surprised."

The man behind the counter glances up from the army of patties he's grilling and smiles at Tony in apparent recognition. "Hey, stranger," he greets good-naturedly, offering them a warm smile as he slides over to the Steno pad resting on beside the register. "Been a while."

Tony smiles back apologetically, "Yeah, well, you know, life."

"I hear ya, son," the man commiserates knowingly, poising his pen over the page. "So what'll it be for you and your lady friend here?"

Tony glances back at Ziva, who raises her eyebrows in response. She doesn't appear to be forthcoming with her answer, so he takes the initiative and says, "My usual and a classic cheeseburger with extra cheese and bacon, but hold the pickles and mayo."

"How do you want that cooked?"

"Mine medium rare, hers well done."

"Fries?"

"Of course."

"Drinks?"

And Tony casts a sideways look at the woman lingering beside him. "Two mudslides, please."

"That it?"

Tony nods.

"Alright, then, son. Take a seat anywhere you like, I'll have your order up ASAP," the man, whose nametag says Bud in large block print, says. Tony smiles brightly before guiding Ziva over to an empty booth in the corner. Bud watches them go with a small, private smile before calling out, "Leo! Leo –get your skinny ass back in here, smoking break's over!"

Ziva looks back toward the counter in time to see a lanky youth come slouching from the kitchen, his headphones draped lazily around his neck and his fingers scrambling to his apron strings. Bud hands the kid Tony and Ziva's order as another couple walks up to the counter.

"How did you find this place?" she asks suddenly, turning away from the nearly full restaurant to look at Tony.

He shrugs, reaching over to fiddle with a packet of sugar. "My favorite bartender told me about this place a coupla years ago and then it turned out it was Abby's favorite after-bowling haunt so . . . I didn't find this place. It kind of found me."

"I've got two mudslides," says a lyrical voice, raised above the din. It's the waitress Ziva had seen earlier, a young girl around Leo's age. Her dark hair is tied back in a sloppy bun with a chopstick stabbed through it and she as a tongue ring that glints when she talks. "Your meals'll be up soon," she says as she sets down a tall glass holding what surely must be heaven liquefied.

A mudslide, apparently, is a double chocolate milkshake that tastes like brownie batter, topped with real whipped cream and so much hot fudge Ziva thinks the ice cream will melt. Chocolate sprinkles are dumped liberally amongst a spoonful of Marshmallow fluff and chopped nuts.

Tony watches her in mild fascination as she stares, awestruck, at the confection before her. Biting the inside of his cheek to curb his smile, he passes her a spoon wordlessly, grinning like an idiot when she takes her first bite and seems to dissolve in bliss.

"Good?" he asks teasingly, and she nods, rolling her eyes exaggeratedly.

"Yes," she says, already digging up another spoonful of mudslide.

And there's something so incredible in the simplicity of the moment, but Tony doesn't have time to linger on it. Really, he's just happy she's happy.

...

"So," he says slowly, casually letting the thought trail off into the humid night air. They're walking down the sidewalk, arms brushing, making their way back to where Ziva parked her car, a block away from the church. Dinner had been delicious, of course, and they had settled into a post-meal silence, merely enjoying one another's company.

Ziva makes a noncommittal noise and possibly, maybe, leans into Tony slightly. "So," she echoes.

"So . . . You got plans for tomorrow?" And if this catches her off guard, she doesn't show it.

"I think tomorrow will be . . . uneventful," she says thoughtfully, carefully. "What about you?"

"Same."

"Tony?"

"Yeah?"

"I might go to the farmer's market down the street from my apartment. There is a craft fair that will be there." It's an invitation of sorts, and he knows this, recognizes this. Greedily accepts this.

He nods, "Good to know."

And she smiles.

And they continue on down the sidewalk.