A/N: Merry belated holidays. Good news -I survived my first semester of college (yay!); bad news -I fear you all may hate me for dragging my feet on this. So please don't hate me. There are about four chapters left, I think, and the goal (because I am SO good at reaching those) is to be done by the New Year. So let's see, shall we? Much love and keep the peace, Kit!

DISCLAIMER: I own nothing.

Chapter XV

He doesn't know why he's so nervous, why it feels as if something is shifting, hurtling toward something else entirely. He tugs at his tie until the silk noose loosens slightly and he can take a breath of humid summer air before extending his arm and ringing the doorbell.

He had known that she had changed addresses after her breakup with Cruz, but he was surprised to find her new residence on a quiet Georgetown street that seems to be inhabited by relatively young families. There are children playing across the street, two little boys of seven or eight and their father shooting hoops in their driveway. He was even more surprised to find her address doesn't lead to one of the brightly painted front doors dotting the porches, but instead belongs to a basement apartment.

He hears the door chime, a warm gonglike sound, and then her muffled voice, calling, "Coming!"

She opens the door with a flourish and he holds up the bouquet of red roses, peering over the petals to catch the delighted smile that spreads across her face. "Hello, Zee-vah," he says softly and she steps aside to allow him entrance.

"Let me get a vase for those," she says, disappearing into the kitchenette and opening a cabinet. He takes a moment to look at his surroundings. He's standing in the sitting room, and there's a very comfortable looking couch and an armchair that he's fairly sure she lives in, if the book resting on the plush arm is any indication. An antique-looking trunk is masquerading as a coffee table and he's pleased to see her entertainment center is relatively up-to-date. The adjacent dining room is inviting, all warm-toned furniture and her old upright piano.

"Satisfied?" she asks impishly, placing a simple glass vase in the center of the table and glancing at him over her shoulder.

"I like it," he says, passing her the bouquet. "It's very you."

"Thank you," she replies, pressing her nose to the blooms. "I think."

"It was a compliment," he assures her with a smile. "And you're welcome."

She flashes him another smile, the rare kind that lights up her entire face and makes him imagine that it's reserved especially for him. And that's when he notices what she's wearing and his heart nearly forgets how to beat.

She has her hair down, curling around her shoulders, just like he likes it. Her make-up is simple, and she has on these dangly earrings that elongate her neck and do deliciously sinful things to his libido. Her dress is a classic black wrap with a full skirt that skims her knees and a neckline low enough to get his attention –as if it would be anywhere else. She has her arm in the sling, but she's strategically draped a scarf-thing around it so it doesn't look quite so bad.

She looks stunning.

She arches a perfectly manicured eyebrow at him as he makes a final sweep with his eyes.

"You are beautiful," he tells her, and his voice is so soft, so earnest, she leans in impulsively and presses her lips to his cheek.

"Thank you," she murmurs, her breath warm in his ear. "You don't look so bad yourself." And he doesn't, in one of his suits and a pale lavender dress shirt that looks quite debonair.

"Graci," he replies with a smile, offering her his arm. "Our dinner reservations are for seven. Shall we?"

And she smirks, chuckling quietly as she takes his arm and allows him to lead her to the front door.

...

The restaurant is a quiet, upscale place in downtown D.C., where the wine is outstanding, the food delicious, and, for Tony and Ziva, the company superb.

She did not know what to expect from him, if he would be the charming Casanova or the goofy, yet capable, partner she has in the field. She's pleased to find, however, that he isn't one single facet of his persona, but is, instead, simply himself, entire: Smooth and charismatic, yes, but genuine, funny, and mildly self-depreciating as well. They embrace the topic of their coworkers, speculating about Jimmy and Breena's rescheduled nuptials at the end of August, and Ducky's return home next week. Tony had been to visit McGee earlier, and was excited to hear his speech improved and his coordination returning. Ziva had gone to lunch with Abby, who has since then wrangled her into the volunteer project the Goth is spearheading to benefit the family's affected by the bombing.

It doesn't surprise her, though, to find that she's enjoying herself.

"This is nice," she tells him sincerely after the dinner plates have been cleared away and they each are sipping at a second glass of wine each.

He grins at her, his eyes warm and pensive. "Yeah," he agrees, after a moment. "Yeah, it is." Then, "Would you want to do this again, sometime? Maybe, you know, soon?" And he sounds so hopeful, despite his obvious preparation for her rebuff.

Her face softens and she gives him that private, happy smile that he's certain he can get addicted to. "I would like that, Tony."

And his lips twitch upwards into that brilliant smile of his and he says, quietly, "Me too."

...

He pays for dinner and she invites him back to her place for coffee. They end up sitting on her couch with their shoes off, drinking decaf out of cheerfully glazed ceramic mugs, and talking. Honestly, openly, really talking.

Which, in Tony's case, culminates in babbling.

"I want to give us a shot," he says. "A real shot, Ziva. I want . . . I want to be something permanent in your life. I want to give you the happiness you deserve. I'm ready, I think –no. I know I'm ready. I'm ready for this, for us. I want this." And he's speaking a mile a minute and she's smiling at him but he's too preoccupied with his monologue to notice. So she leans forward and covers his mouth with hers, quite effectively shutting him up.

He freezes against her, caught off guard momentarily before leaning into the kiss and becoming an enthusiastic participant. His palm comes up to cradle her face, his fingertips smoothing over her cheek, and she hums, her lips curling into a smile beneath his. They break the kiss, panting like teenagers during their first heavy make out session, their foreheads pressed together and eyes closed.

And then Ziva starts chuckling, and, though Tony has no idea what is so funny, he joins in anyway because her laughter is contagious and its half past midnight and they are making out on her couch and it's just . . . perfect.

And he'll swear later that he thought the earth moved.