A/N: I left something out of chapter two the first time I posted this, so if you're reading this having already read chapter two, I recommend going back and re-reading it quickly so you benefit from me having corrected my mistake...


TONY

"What's his name?"

"Tom. Tom DiMatteo."

Of course, he just had to be Italian. And a film buff. Because that's how things always worked out for Tony.

It was 3am and he was still trying to convince himself this didn't really bother him, that Ziva having a boyfriend was no big deal, and that this was just the same as any other relationship she'd had and that really, it wasn't even a little deal, not a problem, no worries, and Tony was fine and dandy with things exactly the way they were.

The real issue was that he'd never been fine with her dating... well, anyone, really. This was just the same as her being in any other relationship, in that the very idea of it made Tony want to punch something, someone, put a few bullet holes in the walls or in someone's face. It was highly unprofessional, but that hadn't stopped him feeling this way before and it seemed unlikely it was going to stop him this time, either.

Gibbs would have a fit if he knew... Tony allowed himself a wry grin. Well, in the first place Gibbs already knew, no doubt. It was always safest to work on the principle that Gibbs knew everything until proven otherwise. And for seconds, the idea of Gibbs having a fit was pretty outlandish. If he knew just how much this was eating at his senior agent, though - if he knew that Tony and McGee had been actively looking for dirt on the guy. They might be able to reassure each other that they were doing it for her own good, and a mutual willingness to pretend that was all there was to it was very comforting, but somehow Tony didn't think that Gibbs would buy into that quite so easily.

So far, Tim had come up with absolutely nothing suspicious, and the calls Tony had made in between finishing up McGee's paperwork had been equally fruitless. They'd told each other that that in itself was suspicious, that no one could be quite this squeaky clean, that there must be something there if they dug far enough, but Tony had a sinking feeling that this Tom was exactly what he seemed: a totally decent, somewhat geeky guy with fairly impressive taste in movies. If they didn't start hitting pay dirt soon, they'd have to start telling each other that this was a really good thing and that they were pleased for Ziva that she'd found someone to go out with who wasn't a murder suspect or a rogue agent or pathological liar. That was a conversation he suspected Tim was looking forward to just as little as he was.

He turned over in bed, punched his pillow a few times, and took a swig from the whiskey he'd poured out for this exact eventuality. He was going to sleep if it killed him (hey, he was free to be as melodramatic as he liked in the privacy of his own head, thank you very much) and tomorrow he'd start on the whole acceptance thing. Or maybe they'd find a skeleton in Tom's closet. He tried not to think too hard about which of those scenarios appealed to him the most.

Taking another gulp of whiskey, he buried his head in the pillow. Briefly he considered the possibility of suffocating in goose down; then told himself to grow a pair.

If I'm sleep deprived, Gibbs will kill me. Maybe terror would be an effective way of forcing himself to get some sleep. He'd tried counting sheep, but the sheep had all been wearing little placards reading "Rule 12"... maybe he should take the hint, he thought, and started counting Gibbs' rules instead. It proved surprisingly effective, and he was asleep before he got out of the teens.