Author's Note: Hello, lovely readers! I am so sorry for another prolonged period between chapters. There has been plenty of illness in my little family this summer and I just hadn't been very motivated to write. However, as a result, you get a very long chapter that covers both Cloak and Dagger. So at least there's that.

Please read, review, etc.

Disclaimer: Not mine, etc

She knows he is mad because he hates politics and with the Secretary of the Navy involved, this is as political as it gets for them. So when he storms off toward the elevator, she follows him. An argument ensues, because that is what they do. He is clearly frustrated and she lets him take it out on her, although as usual, she cannot resist pushing back a little. He asks her about throwing those punches, trying to "kimbo slice" her way through the room of guards, whatever that means.

She is truthful when she says, "Gun shot went off. I saw you…" She stops. Now is not the time to explain to him how there was no way for her to know that the bullets weren't real, that the guards weren't going to kill them, and she had feared he was dead. This is why she shut down and reverted to assassin mode, as he calls it, because she could not handle the possibility of his death.

They stare at each other intensely for a long moment, and he says in a low voice, "I'm tired of pretending."

She can only respond with the truth. "So am I." She hopes he does not ask what exactly she is tired of pretending because she honestly is not sure.

"It's dinner theater for an audience of one. Let the curtain go down," he says and stalks out of the elevator. She isn't sure what exactly that means, but she is fairly certain that he means the war games and politics. Not tired about pretending that they don't mean more to each other than just partners or friends or whatever they claim their relationship to be. She's tired of the war games, too, if just because they put Tony so much on edge.

The elevator doors ding and she closes her eyes, composing herself, getting her emotions back in check. Her eyes snap back open when she hears the doors open and sees Tony hop back in. "Forget something?" she asks, keeping her tone as casual as possible.

His eyes are still blazing. "Yeah," he replies in that same low voice as before. "A question. What are you tired of pretending?" He reaches over and hits the emergency brake on the elevator, bathing them in blue light.

She is taken off guard by his sudden reappearance and subsequent question. She figured that he would assume she was talking about the same thing he was. "The politics," she says, brow furrowing as she tries to work out his line of thought here.

He frowns, shaking his head. "No," he counters. "You don't care about the politics. You even kind of like them. What are you really tired of pretending?"

The way he is able to read her both annoys and thrills her. She is not completely sure that he gets how connected they are, but maybe he does. After all, it is for this reason that they are both able to get under the other's skin so easily. So she opts, again, for the truth. "That there is nothing between us beside partnership."

His eyes narrow, just the tiniest bit, as her words make their way through his brain. In a second, the anger on his face dissipates, and he searches her face for additional meaning. She holds her head high and looks right back at him. The truth is out, she figures, and there is no reason to hide. While she was somewhat dismayed when she first realized exactly how much this man, with his boyish idiocy and constant chatter, means to her, she knows that he is a good man with a good heart. He is not perfect, but neither is she.

He takes a step toward her, places one of his large hands on the side of her face, his thumb brushing lightly over her lips. "Ziva…" he says, his voice low but missing the edge that it had before.

She gravitates closer to him, leans into his touch, but stops anything else he might say. "This is not a good time. We have a mole to catch," she says, sighing.

He smiles at her, his eyes crinkling in the way that makes her stomach flip like she is a schoolgirl. "Once we figure this all out, we will continue this conversation," he promises, removing his hand and stepping back to release the emergency brake. Back to business and politics and war games.

As soon as Michelle Lee says that she was protecting her sister, who she views as a daughter, Tony knows this would affect Ziva more than she would be willing to admit. After it all goes down about how he expects it would, he watches her watch Gibbs break the news to Agent Lee's sister that Agent Lee is dead. He sees the tears pooling in her eyes and knows that she is thinking about her little sister. Tali, for whom she was never given the choice to sacrifice her own life.

She glances at him once, an almost unbearably sad look on her face, before heading toward the elevator and he sits there for another second before grabbing his coat and following her. Before he can hit the down button on the elevator to chase after her, he hears the heavy door to the stairs nearby click shut. He redirects and jogs down a flight and a half of stairs before he almost trips over her sitting on a stair, her elbows on her knees and her head in her hands.

"Leave me alone, Tony," she says, voice slightly muffled but undeniably teary, knowing it is him before he says a word.

This rejection is expected - she always pushes people away when she is feeling miserable - and instead, he sits down next to her. "No," he tells her simply. He doesn't say anything more or try to touch her, knowing intrinsically that she doesn't want platitudes or empty gestures. He sits silently next to her as she composes herself, sniffling and taking deep breaths.

After a few minutes, when he is sure she has her emotions back under control, he says, "Want to go to that Indian place with the buffet? All you can eat naan on me. And then you can explain what they're singing and dancing about in those music videos they play at the bar while we get silly drunk."

She turns her head to look at him. "You do not have to do this."

"Do what?" he blinks innocently.

She narrows her eyes at him. "I know we had a… moment the other day in the elevator, but you should not feel obligated by anything we said."

He sighs. "Yes, we had a moment. We have a lot of moments. But right now, I'm just trying to get you out of your head space. Plus, I'm hungry."

"The space in my head is fine, as is the rest of me," she snaps at him. Then without another glance at him, she stands up and brushes past him, leaving him sitting alone on the stairs.

Later, he stands outside her apartment building, holding bags containing beer and Indian takeout. He buzzes the intercom for her apartment, but she does not answer. Lights are on in her apartment, so he knows she is home. She also won't answer his texts.

As he considers his next move, someone appears in the building's small lobby, heading towards him standing at the door. It is Ziva's next door neighbor, an elderly woman who he has actually met a few times. She opens the front door and greets him. He flashes her his most charming grin and says, "Hi, Dolores, thanks for letting me in. I was going to surprise Ziva with dinner after we solved our latest case, but there was just one flaw in that plan." He gestures toward the door to the lobby.

Dolores smiles at him. She has told they numerous times how she feels safer knowing she is neighbors with a federal agent. "That's so nice, dear," she replies. "I'm off to dinner with the girls, myself. You and Ziva have a nice night." And with that, she disappears out of the building.

He smiles to himself at this stroke of luck as he waits for the elevator up to her floor. There is a chance that Ziva will kick his ass to the moon and back for showing up unannounced at her apartment, but she likes Indian food and he found the IPA that she said that she liked, so he is hedging his bets.

Still, he feels a bit of nervousness as he knocks on her front door. There is a long pause where she does not come to the door and he wonders if she looked through her peephole, saw him, and decided to just freeze him out. Just as he resolves that he will camp outside her door, knowing that she will have to come out at some point, the door opens and she is looking at him through a frown and narrowed eyes. "Tony, I told you I was not in the mood," she starts to say.

Before she can continue, he interrupts her. "Yeah, I know. But I'm done letting you shut me out."

She raises one of her eyebrows. "I am fine," she insists.

"You're not," he says bluntly, putting his hand on the door to stop her from shutting it in his face.

Her frown deepens. "Oh and now you are an expert in what I am feeling?" she challenges him.

He resists the urge to roll his eyes at her obstinacy. "Look, I'd love to keep arguing with you, but can you let me in? I don't think your neighbors want to hear us."

There is a long pause where he sees her purse her lips and knows that she is deciding whether to grant his request or use her ninja strength to close the door on his fingers. He braces himself just in case, but she suddenly opens the door wider, making him stumble forward. "Fine," she spits out and steps further into her living room.

He walks in, closing the door behind him, and drops the bags onto her glass-topped coffee table. "Now, where were we? Oh yeah, you were trying to shut me out for the millionth time and I was trying to keep you from doing that." He gestures with his hands to indicate that it is her turn.

She crosses her arms across her chest, a defensive move. "Look, I am not like you or Abby. I do not want to talk about my emotions."

"Who said anything about talking about emotions? I'm not a shrink," he replies, shrugging. "I just don't want you to freeze me out again."

"I am not freezing you. I do not want to talk right now. That is it. It is not always about you, you know."

He ignores the insult and counters. "Fine. We won't talk. I brought Indian food and beer. We can eat. And drink. And not talk."

She huffs out a laugh that is devoid of humor. "Like you could be silent for more than half a minute."

Again, he ignores the insult and barrels on. "Fine. You're on," he says, taking a seat on her couch and opening the bag of food. Instantly, the smell of spices escapes into the room and he knows she won't be able to resist. He lays out the containers and removes the lids, and he feels more than sees Ziva sit down on the opposite end of the couch. She picks up the container of palak paneer and some naan and begins eating. He chooses the lamb curry and digs in as well.

As promised, he doesn't say a word. In fact, he doesn't even look at her, like she is a skittish animal that might run away if he moves too fast. At one point, he reaches into the other bag and pulls out a bottle of beer and silently hands it to her. She gets up and returns shortly with a bottle opener. He hands her a second beer and she opens it and hands it back to him.

After he has eaten his fill, he puts the almost empty container on the table and leans back. "Now wasn't that worth it?" he asks, patting his full stomach appreciatively and glancing over at her.

She raises an eyebrow. "Maybe. How many movie quotes did you think of while you were quiet?"

"Maybe ten. Want to hear them?" he responds, grinning cheekily.

"No." Her short answer is accompanied by what he interprets as an amused look. She seems to be thawing. Maybe it's the beer, but he is thankful for it anyway. He has found over the years that he hates nothing more than to be frozen out by Mossad Officer Ziva David. And yet, it happens again and again.

Their eyes meet for a long moment. For once, she is the first to break the silence. "Look, Tony, about earlier," she says with a small sigh. "I am sorry."

Apologies from this woman is rare, and he blinks, wondering if she is sorry for trying to freeze him out or for showing her hand in the elevator the other day. Maybe the two are more related than he'd thought previously. "You have to stop shutting me out," he chides gently.

She fixes her eyes on him and is silent for a moment. "I shut you out so you do not have to deal with my…" she searches for the right word. "messes."

"But that's not what partners do. I mean, I involve you in pretty much all my messes." She snorts in response to that and they fall silent again. That word - partners - hangs in the air between them, and he knows she's thinking about that conversation in the elevator as well. He continues, "And that's not all we are. We're more than partners. Right?" In his head, he adds please let me be right.

Her eyes soften and she searches his face. "Yes," she says quietly.

He is not sure when it happened, but they have both migrated toward the center of the couch, so close that they are almost touching. He gently puts his hand on her face again, and he knows and she knows that they are about to kiss.

But before this can happen, she breaks their heated gaze and looks down. "Tony…" she says, almost in a sigh.

"Ziva?"

She looks back up at him, a rueful look on her face. "You know I am seeing someone in Israel, yes?" she asks. "I left that photo of him for you to find in my desk."

If they weren't in the middle of a moment - yet another one - he would have laughed. Of course she left the photo there on purpose, to satisfy the curiosity she knew was eating him. He gives a half smile. "Ah yes, the mystery man," he says, taking a light tone to hide his disappointment.

"His name is Michael. He is also Mossad. I have known him since I was a child. He was a friend of Ari's," she says in a monotone, hardly the tone in which he expects her to describe a man with whom she is involved.

"Well," he responds, leaning his head against the back of the sofa and turning so he is facing her. "That's a lot of history."

"Yes," she confirms. "But you and I have a lot of history as well."

He smiles - not his patented cheeky DiNozzo grin, but that private smile, the one that lately only she has seen. "Yes." A long beat, as he hesitates, then asks, "So what now?"

"I do not know," she says with a deep sigh.

He takes one of her hands, lacing his fingers through hers. "The way I see it," he says, "You have two options. You can stay with Mr Israel and we stay partners. Or we finally stop dancing around this thing we've been dancing around for years and give it a go. Either way, I'll still have your back." He lifts their entwined hands to his lips and kisses her fingers gently.

"Tony…" She looks like she is about to say more but trails off instead.

He lets go of her hand and pushes himself off her couch. "I'm gonna go. You have a choice to make," he says, almost regretfully. She looks up at him, a grateful look on her face. He shoots her one last smile, then heads for her door.

The next morning, Tony bounds out of the elevator and into the bullpen. It is Friday and he loves Fridays right after they finish up a case and aren't on call that weekend. Usually, it means they will get out at a decent hour, which is worth the otherwise dull day of paperwork. Plus, after showing his hand to Ziva last night, he feels ten pounds lighter. He hadn't realized how much his evolving feelings had been weighing on his mind without being able to talk to anyone about them.

He greets McGee cheerfully with a "Top o'the morning to you, lad" in a terrible attempt at a Cockney accent. The other agent shoots him a suspicious look as he mutters a return greeting but thankfully keeps his mouth otherwise shut. The last thing he needs is McGee inquiring into the reasons behind his unusually chipper mood. He sits at his desk and sips coffee as his computer goes through its morning ritual of groaning back to life. It takes a good two minutes before he realizes that Ziva is not at her desk. He is usually the last of the three Musketeers to arrive in the mornings.

"Where's the ninja?" he asks McGee, gesturing at her empty seat.

McGee shrugs. "Probably running an errand before work." He looks unconcerned, but Tony frowns slightly at his slowly awakening computer. She didn't get freaked out by their conversation last night and decide to hightail it back to Israel, did she?

Before he can make up his mind whether or not to send her a text confirming that she has not been kidnapped by anti-Semitic terrorists, the elevator dings and she steps out. She is on her cell phone, speaking emphatically in Hebrew. Instead of heading straight to her desk, she walks right past it to pace around behind the open staircase. He has no idea to whom she is speaking or what she is saying, but she sounds angry. He and McGee exchange looks, then silently go back to staring at their computer screens as she winds up her call with an aggressive, "Todah."

She makes her way back to her desk and sits down in a way that makes Tony wince in pain for her chair. "Uh, you okay, Ziva?" McGee asks.

"I am fine, McGee," she says curtly. Then she takes a deep breath and continues, in a normal tone, "Thank you for asking."

McGee's eyes tick toward Tony but he just shrugs at the younger man. His imagination is going wild about the nature of that conversation but he is not about to share those thoughts with anyone, especially not McGossip.

After lunch, as he revising his field report, which had been rejected by Gibbs once already, he gets an IM from Ziva, asking him about his plans for the evening. Keeping his giddiness in check, he responds with Nothing special. You?

He can hear her tapping away at her keyboard but he doesn't dare look up. A minute later, she sends him a response. Want to come over? I will cook dinner.

It takes him less than half a minute to send another message. You're on. As if he would ever turn down a Ziva-cooked meal or a chance to ask about the tense call from the morning. In the back of his mind, he remembers all of the Ziva-cooked meals he missed when he was undercover and falling in love with Jeanne Benoit, but he quickly shoves those thoughts back into a dark corner of his mind.

"So what was that phone call this morning about?" he asks, slurping down pho. Ziva had claimed that she had never made pho before, and that the recipe was simple enough that he could make it himself but he declined a copy of the recipe, saying he would rather just have her make it for him. She had narrowed her eyes at him at this and said that she was not his personal chef.

They are sitting at her small dining room table, steaming bowls of Vietnamese noodles in front of them. So far, they have talked about work and the meal in front of them, carefully skirting around the things he really wants to talk about. Namely, if she has dumped Mr Israel on his ear or if he will have to pretend for the rest of his life that this woman in front of him doesn't mean more to him than any other field partner he has had over the years.

But finally, his curiosity has gotten the better of him and he blurts out the question out of the blue. She merely smirks in response at first, as if she couldn't believe he had gone that long without asking her, knowing how his curiosity has him always wanting to know about any phone conversation she has in Hebrew in his presence. He despairs that she isn't going to answer him, but then she says, "I was telling Michael that if he comes here to attempt to win me back, I will castrate him."

She says it nonchalantly, but in that one sentence, he gleans all the information he needs. First, a reminder to never mess with her. Second, that she has broken up with Michael. He suddenly wants to pump his fists in the air like he won an Olympic gold medal but refrains. "So you broke up with him, huh?" he responds casually, taking a sip of the soup with a small ladle-like spoon.

She rolls her eyes at him. "Yes," she confirms, "but not for you. I had been suspecting that my father had ordered him to start a relationship with me so that I would not become too Americanized. When I asked Michael about it, he did not deny it. He claims that he fell in love with me on his own anyway, but I cannot trust him."

This revelation makes him raise his eyebrows. Her father had ordered Mr Israel to woo his daughter? It should surprise him, but from what he knows about Eli David, it sounds pretty typical. Selfishly, he is glad about this. It means that he isn't responsible for breaking up a relationship. In the past, he hadn't cared but for some reason, it matters with Ziva. Then again, a lot of things that didn't matter to him in past relationships matter to him when it comes to her. The reverse is true as well. Easy there, DiNozzo, he thinks to himself as he listens to her continue describing the phone call from this morning, you're not exactly dating her right now.

"Wow," he says when she finishes her story. "Your father really did that?"

"Yes. It really was just a matter of time before he tried to marry me off, but it still pisses me off, you know?" she responds. She is talking fast, in the way she does when she is annoyed. "And the reason for it is so obvious."

"Because he wants to control every aspect of your life?" he guesses.

"No," she says. "Well, yes. But also because he thinks that you and I are sleeping together."

He chokes a little on the hot soup at this. "He what?" he splutters, blinking.

"Oh yes. He got someone from the embassy to take pictures of me letting you into my apartment. This was, oh, two summers ago. When Gibbs retired and I was accused of murder. Officer Bashan showed me the pictures and then asked if I was sleeping with you. I did not respond and I think he took that as a 'yes,' and reported back to my father."

He wonders if he should be concerned for his safety at this news, but figures if nothing has happened to him by now, he is likely safe. In response, all he can think to say is, "Huh."

She looks him dead on and says, "This is the kind of mess that I try to keep you out of. Are you sure you want to get involved?"

"I'm already involved in this one," he points out.

"That is true."

He takes a sip of water, trying to soothe his still burning throat. After a beat, he asks, "Should I be worried about your father hiring hit men to take me out?"

He almost snickers at her brief does not compute face as she figures out what he means by his question. Then she shrugs and replies, "Probably not. I do not think he has killed any of the other men with whom I have had relationships."

The weight of her words makes them both pause. "So," he ventures eventually. "We're in a relationship?"

She raises her eyebrows at him. "Are we not? I do not make Vietnamese comfort food for just anyone, you know."

"You said you hadn't made it before."

"Oh. Yes."

They lapse back into silence, broken only by sounds of tiny ladles and chopsticks on porcelain bowls. He can't hide the smile creeping onto his face and he sees a similar smile dawn on hers.

And that is how they start their relationship. There is no fanfare, no grand declarations in public. They slide into it quietly and find it to be natural, comfortable. They quickly lay ground rules - no carrying over of work arguments into their personal relationship, and no carrying over of personal arguments into work. They call it Rule Two, and any time one of them starts to break it, the other is quick with a reminder.

Rule One is simply Don't do anything to make Gibbs transfer one of us to another team. It is closely associated with Rule Two, and they are diligent to not break it.

Rule Three is No kissing on the job. This is one they break regularly, although they make sure they are alone before they do so, because, as Tony put it, "Do we really want to be caught making out by Gibbs? Or Vance, for that matter?"

Despite their rules and best efforts at keeping their work partnership the same, Gibbs senses the subtle changes and figures it out fairly quickly. He looks annoyed, concerned, then resigned, as if he knew it was inevitable.

They keep it hidden from McGee and Abby longer, but Abby figures it out eventually and clues in McGee by squealing and jumping up and down. Ducky hears about from Abby or McGee, or he figures it out on his own, they aren't sure which, but he tells them anecdotes about coworkers he has known who have successfully navigated romantic relationships, tacitly giving his approval to the couple. Ziva in particular is pleased with his blessing.

Tony does not have to fear retaliation from Eli David. Unbeknownst to him, Ziva has a talk with her father in which she threatens to stop all contact with him, and Eli, conniving though he is, is unwilling to cut ties with his only living child. He doesn't welcome Tony into the family with open arms, but he doesn't send assassins after him, and for that, Tony is thankful.

Despite his penchant for movie quotes and her inability to grasp cultural references, as he puts it, they are more compatible than they imagined, and their relationship quietly passes the relationship milestones with no more than standard glitches - moving in together (she looked blankly at his vast movie collection, then gathers herself bravely and announces that they need another bookshelf), anniversaries (they both sometimes forget), talk about having children together (despite his fear of children, he says he wants one, and she says she wants two because the love of a sibling is something everyone deserves, but they stop short of talking about when they will start trying), whether she should apply for US citizenship (they both agree yes).

They both eventually move on to new positions. Gibbs gets into another accident and retires for good, handing the reins to MCRT to Tony. Ziva decides that she no longer wants to be, as her father put it, the pointy end of the spear, so she moves into Intelligence, into which she originally wanted to go when she first started out at Mossad before her father made her a field agent. And while she will not admit it out loud, she knows that this position will be easier to do while pregnant, and the hours, while rather unusual since she mainly works the Middle East, are more family-friendly.

And so the reformed womanizer and ninja assassin build their life together, serving their country (because of course Ziva passes her citizenship test and becomes a US citizen) and finding themselves in domestic mostly-bliss, because of course she is still hot tempered and he still occasionally acts like a child. Through the years, things change and things stay the same, but always, they have each other's backs.