He sighed, wiping his face as he flicked on the light of his apartment, and closed the door behind him. He had barely kicked off his shoes before he found himself in the kitchen, pouring a glass of red wine — something that had become an all too frequent occurrence over the past three months.

You never should have left her behind, he thought, taking a sip, as the guilt and regret sank into every fiber of his being.

He couldn't remember the last time he slept, or the last time he ate a proper meal that wasn't several bites of takeout food that McGee ordered at the office when they were working late. Everything reminded him of her. Even standing in the middle of his apartment, his heart sank, thinking of the last time she was there.

He shook his head, trying to dispel the memory from his mind. The feel of her body pressed against his, the way her skin tasted beneath his lips…

He took a sip of wine, pulling off his tie, and throwing it haphazardly on the counter. He looked at the growing collection of used wine glasses on the drainer, and shook his head. That was tomorrow's problem. He grabbed the glass in one hand, and the bottle in another and headed into his living room, where he sank into the couch.

He switched on the television, pressing play on whatever movie he had in his DVD player. He didn't really care what it was, because he knew he wouldn't be watching it anyway. Once he polished off his glass, he'd pour another, and then another, until he'd finished the entire bottle, just to drink away the memory of her.

As the opening moments of Casablanca filled the screen, he looked to the mantelpiece where her necklace sat. He didn't really know why he'd got it on display, because every time he looked at it his heart lurched with desperation and longing for her. Maybe he would take it to work and keep it in his drawer. He thought about her constantly there anyway, that it wouldn't make much difference.

Gibbs had finally settled on her replacement — a former NSA analyst by the name of Eleanor Bishop. But, she wasn't Ziva's replacement. Nothing and nobody could replace her — of that, he was certain. They had tried replacing her once before, and it had only made him uncomfortable. 'Ziva's irreplaceable' he had told the monster who had held them captive. 'If I could drag her back, I'd do it in a heartbeat.' And the words still rang true. If he could, he would. But she did not want to come with him.

He had asked her earnestly to come back to DC with him. He didn't care if she was an agent. He didn't care if she never wrote a gun or badge ever again in her life. He meant what he said when she could bag groceries for all he cared for. He loved her. He was in love with her. He wanted to build a life with her.

But she hadn't wanted the same.

He took a larger sip of his wine. You should have done more to convince her. You should have told her how much you love her. Maybe then she would have changed her mind.

But she knew. And he knew she knew. The intense passion that had ignited between them as they had fallen into bed together, hands and lips roaming every inch of skin in the late afternoon sun, as they kissed and climaxed their way to euphoria, had told her as much.

"Tony, you are so…"

"Handsome? Funny? What?"

"Loved."

And he knew she loved him. The fact that she had slipped her necklace into his pocket was all the proof he needed. "I would sooner die than take this necklace off," he had remembered her recounting to him, when she told him about the precursory events leading to her capture in Somalia. The necklace meant everything to her. And he could only assume that by her giving it to him, it meant that he meant everything to her too. At least, that is what he liked to believe.

But she would have come home with you if you did, he thought.

He pulled off his suit jacket, slinging it over the back of the couch and unbuttoned his shirt. He would get changed into pajamas at some point…. maybe. Many nights he had fallen asleep in front of the television, in a wine-induced drowsiness, not bothering to even unbuckle his belt before he began snoring and drooling.

His thoughts were interrupted by a knock at the door, and he sighed. He rose from the couch, heading to the entrance.

"Mrs Parkinson, for the last time, I'll let my father know that you're eager to see him again, and—"

The words caught in his throat and he was sure his heart almost stopped, as he took in the sight in front of him. She was exactly as he had left her — olive skin and curly hair. And yet, somehow, she looked slightly paler and more fragile than he remembered her being twelve weeks ago.

"Hi." His words came out strangled as the air rushed from his lungs, in shock, at her presence.

"Hello," she replied, with a small smile on her face. "Can I come in?"

She toyed with the hem of her shirt in nervousness; something which was extremely unusual for her. Their gaze was intense as they stared at each other, and he bit his lip as the corners of his mouth turned up into a small smile.

He nodded, stepping aside and letting her in.

"I know it is late, and I am sorry for the intrusion, but I needed to see you…"

He smiled at her as she stepped across the threshold. "You're not intruding," he replied, "though I can't say I'm not shocked to see you here. I've just cracked open a bottle of wine… care to join me in a drink?"

He eyes glanced to the glass on the coffee table, and then to him. She shook her head. "I cannot."

"I promise it's the good stuff," he chuckled, awkwardly. How were they supposed to be around each other, given their last interaction? She had been radio silent for months, ignoring his calls and his text messages, and even the emails he had spent hours writing to her. She had completely cut herself off from him… and yet, she was there, on his doorstep out of the blue? But why?

A lump formed in her throat as she looked at him, and an unease settled in his stomach with worry. He had never seen her look so frightened before — not even in the face of danger. Honestly, she looked as if she could throw up.

He closed the door to his apartment as she made her way slightly further in, the chilly winter air filtering through the slightly cracked window on the opposite side of the room, suddenly sobering him up.

"Ziva," he asked, concerned. "What's wrong?" Something had to be wrong. Why else would she be there?

She took a deep breath, mustering up the courage to say the words aloud to him.

"I'm pregnant."