Archive of Our Own ^beta

“Bon-jo-ur. J’adore voyager en Frrrance.”

Ziva judges his weird accent with narrowing eyes, scowling at how his ‘R’s roll off his tongue as he speaks. Yes. Like a very old lady who had been smoking all her life.

“Je goes to the cinema every weekend.”

Ziva rolls her eyes, continuing to browse through the magazines at the little shop of Washington airport to find something - anything - that will take her mind off the fact she’ll have to spend eight whole hours on a transatlantic flight with this person.

“Je drinks a glass of wine every night before bed.” 

She scoffs. His idiocy is astounding.

“Je has a small house in the countryside and goes skiing in the Alps every winter.”

“Must have a hell of a life, this ‘Je’,” she mumbles under her breath. 

“What?” asks Tony, looking up from the small translation book in his hands. 

“Nothing,” says Ziva. She moves out of his way, picking out a random magazine and walking towards the snacks stand already knowing he’d stay a long while on it, rambling about which one was best. She surveys the dozen bags of colorful candies. They all look the same to her—diabetes bite-sized.

“I heard you. You should be grateful I was the one chosen to come to this assignment with you, Probette. Little Timothé McGeé would do nothing to immerse himself in French culture, y’know? This is a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. You should be paying attention,” Tony taps the guidebook in his hands. “Parrris,” he says in an accent she didn’t even know was possible. “Notrrre Dame. The Louvrrre. Montmartrrre.”

“Would you please refrain from speaking like that?” She presses both her temples. “It sounds as if you are seconds away from spitting your lungs out. Plus, it is giving me a headache.” 

“What? I need to perfect my French before we get there.” He wiggles his eyebrows, saying, “Plus, I’ll take my chances. The whole world knows European women can easily be blinded by the American charm.” 

“For their sake,” says Ziva, “I do hope they can also turn deaf.” 

“Yeah, yeah, yeah. You can scowl at me with your—” Tony gestures wildly with his hands close to her face. “Pretty brown eyes and red velvet coat all you like, but Parrris is Parrris.” He still rolls the ‘R’s in a way that makes her skin crawl. 

Whatever nonsense he’s talking about, she has no idea. Pretty brown eyes? Red velvet coat? Ziva looks down at her clothes, a nice burgundy coat she hadn’t had the chance to use yet, and her new, shining black boots. Fine. Maybe she is dressing a bit fancier than usual, but it isn’t every day that they have to travel to Europe. She can still enjoy it silently and professionally in her own way. Much more educated than his.  

“They say what happens in Paris can mark you forever.”

“Who says that?” she asks.

Circling her, Tony feigns interest in the candy stand, surveying the backside of products displayed and reading what she sure knows are the same nutritional values. Or perhaps his interest is not feigned at all. He even raises the candy packages against the light, for some reason. She scoffs out loud, annoyed by it. Tony sends her a side-eyed glance, looming close. 

“Bowie,” he replies nonchalantly. “Or something like that, I can’t recall.”

“A very strange boy, yes?” she asks. 

Tony’s face lights up like a Christmas tree. “So you’ve seen Moulin Rouge?” His tone is hopeful. 

“No,” Ziva deadpans, although she’s familiar with the song. “I was talking about you, actually.” 

His smile stays, though now it’s a fake one, plastered on his face. It’s one of the things she liked the most about him—out of all Tony's joking, he rarely took when people laughed at him to heart. 

“Oh, clever, Miss David. Clever.” His index finger sways in her direction. With a low sigh, Tony continues, “Though some part of me wishes I watched it for the first time as a boy… Nicole Kidman. Woof. Legs for miles. Elbow-length gloves and red lipstick. No laws. No limits.”

Then Tony halts in his steps, facing her, and she almost bumps into him in the narrow store aisle. Only then does Ziva realize she’s been cornered, having to angle her face up to send him a questioning glance, wondering just why the sudden change. 

They exchange a look. 

Ziva raises her eyebrows, inquiring. 

Tony opens a slow smile. “Yes. The greatest thing you'll ever learn is just to love and be loved in return,” he says with the voice he uses for his annoying, yet so frequent, impersonations.  

And there it is. The beginning of what she’s dreading—the sickening feeling in the depths of her stomach she knows… She knows—it is somehow familiar, reminiscent of a long time ago. Ziva looks at Tony, truly looks at him, and studies the gray of his mischievous eyes and his too-knowing smile. The slope of his American nose and how his cheeks create dimples when there’s a joke dancing behind his face. And she can feel her heart racing, treacherously tattooing the inside of her ribs. Yes, this annoying… feeling. 

Ziva knew it started to bloom as soon as she saw it was him who’d come to her rescue in Somalia. And not her family. Not her father, not Mossad, but the people who she’d worked with in NCIS, her friends… Then, during her short stay in hell, she thought they were about to die. She thought, at first, that she was already dead. 

But somehow they came out alive. Gibbs rescued them. And after a silent plane ride back and a trip to the emergency room, she quickly saw herself inside the elevator walls she’d grown so familiar with. Home. Home. Home. Safe—ringing in her deafening ears.  

And ever since, she dreaded looking into those eyes for too long. 

He was ready to face death - he was ready to die - to avenge her. Not even to save her. But to find the people who had taken her prisoner and do what her family would never have done—respect her enough to face the ultimate end simply because of her. 

After that, Ziva frequently wondered if she could ever be that selfless for someone.

Now, it is hard to keep the butterflies from fluttering every time she looks at Anthony DiNozzo.

She shouldn’t have been assigned to go to Paris with him. But orders are orders. And Ziva pays for her magazine, glaring at Tony’s amused eyes which continue to follow her until they’re seated in front of the gate, ready to leave. 

They say what happens in Paris can mark you forever.

Nonsense. She looks at him—already swallowing down candy at a speed that shows her he isn’t even chewing them properly. He is her coworker, and sometimes - most of the time - not more than a boy living inside the body of a man. She must remember that. 

Tony runs a hand through his short hair and smiles at her, cleaning the candy stuck in his teeth. Soon, he’s babbling about the production details of Moulin Rouge and someone called Louis de Funès or something like that. Ziva grows calm. Yes. She’s familiar with him acting like this. She can deal with it. 

“I’ve never been to France,” he says with a boyish smile. “This is so exciting.”

And there they are, coming to life so easily.

The butterflies again. 

“Please remind yourself of our assignment, yes?” she says with a stricter voice than necessary. “It is my job to keep from… practicing your French.”

In every meaning possible—from being distracted to sidetracking their mission. He already talks too much. But his French accent is horrendous. 

Tony swallows down more candy. “That’s truly a bummer, David.” He smiles. “Not even French kissing?”

Ziva blushes, having to avert her eyes. She can feel the heat creeping up her neck, making her flustered. He chews the candy with his mouth half-open and this… shouldn’t be happening. Yes, she’d had crushes in the past. When she was younger. She could recognize when her feelings were making her mind fuzzy, making her act strange. But this is a man who is constantly making disrespectful jokes and calling unknown women ‘sweethearts.’ He is insufferable and sexist and her presence is often needed just to counterbalance his—

“Thought your job was to pretend that you aren’t enjoying this as much as I am.”

Tony looks at her again, laughter dancing behind his eyes. 

And somehow Ziva can’t think of a smart comeback fast enough, breathing in deeply as she sorts out her mind looking for any coherent string of thought. This never happens—her brain buzzing with alarms as she fails to give him a smart answer.

He’s right. This is why the Director shouldn’t have put them together. Especially on this particular assignment. 

She fears having to spend more than 48 hours near him. 

What is wrong with her? 

“I thought you had been there before,” she says, observing the gate so that she doesn’t have to meet Tony’s eyes. Ziva only hopes he doesn’t notice it. 

“No,” Tony says after a sigh. “My father’s business trips were much more tropical than this. He always had a strange interest in deserts. The gourmet ones, not the…” he trails off. Ziva is almost certain he means Israeli deserts, but for some reason, Tony gives up mentioning it. “Must have been all that sand,” he says. “Or the babes.” He ponders. “Or maybe it was the exotic thrill of eating grapes and talking to his rich friends in a breezy oasis while I almost perished under the midday sun. I never truly knew.” 

Tony chuckles. After her lack of reaction, though, he grows silent. Good. Finally. At least it would ease her headache. Taking the magazine out of her bag, Ziva flips a total of three pages before he shifts in his seat again.  

“Paris. Paris, Ziva!” he exclaims, excitedly. “I always knew Paris would be a certified Bond destination. I wonder if there’ll be enough time to see all the sights—” 

She cuts him short, not even daring to think about exploring the most romantic city in the world with him as company. 

“We are federal agents allocated to escort an important witness,” Ziva reminds him. “We are not traveling for pleasure.”

“Speak for yourself.” Tony sighs. “Ah. The city of am-o-ur. 1963. Charade. Cary Grant. Audrey Hepburn. Expect the unexpected, right? Is anyone really who they seem to be?” He grins. “After Regina falls for the dashing Peter Joshua on a skiing holiday in the French Alps, she discovers upon her return to Paris that her husband has been murdered. Cues the most brilliant mystery romance ever.” Tony passionately gestures with his hands. “Whom can she trust? Why does he keep changing his name? What is the reason behind the movie’s title? Filmed almost completely on location. They practically take us to Paris. The scenes. The ambiance. The best Hitchcock movie Hitchcock never made. And they had to—”

Oh, this is going to be a nightmare. 

“She’s a whistle-blower,” said Tony enthusiastically. Practically screaming it in the middle of the bullpen.

“A what?” quizzed Ziva. She wasn’t sure she’d ever heard the expression. 

McGee simply sighed, saying, “A whistle-blower. It’s a person who informs—”

“Na-ah-ah, Tim,” Tony interrupted, sprinting toward the other side of the office to stop him. Ziva recognized the slight bounce in his steps he sometimes got when he was too excited. It usually meant he knew something they didn’t. 

She narrowed her eyes, trying to gauge what exactly. 

“She’s lived in the U.S. of A. for long enough, now. Plus, aren’t you going to do that citizenship test at some point? Share your thoughts, Probette. What do you think it is?”

“I am not sure, Tony.” Ziva huffed, growing annoyed. “But by what I know of Americans you sure do partake… in all jobs of blowing.”

An open smile was thrown her way at the innuendo. “Well,” Tony said. “At least we aren’t blowing up.”

Almost immediately, the sound of an answering head slap echoed inside the squad room and Ziva had to bite the inside of her cheek not to laugh at DiNozzo’s pained expression. 

“Too much, boss?” he asked. 

“You think, DiNozzo?” said Gibbs flatly. He carried a cup that Ziva could’ve bet was already half-empty with bitter black coffee. “So, she’ll be our whistle-blower.”

She still had no idea what they meant. Americans had the most ludicrous idioms. What would they need a witness blowing a whistle for?

“Location?” asked Gibbs, staring at the dark screen. 

He took a sip of his coffee. Ziva glanced at McGee, who looked even more clueless than she did. Tony was the only one of them jumping up and down, sending her a grin she knew almost always meant trouble. 

“I said—” Gibbs ordered, his voice turning loud. “Location!” he practically yelled, his face enraged.

They all scrambled over themselves to get to their respective desks, urgency almost making Ziva trip before she got to her computer. 

“On it, boss,” said McGee feebly, sounding as much worried as she felt. 

“I think you mean—Oui, oui, boss!” Tony clicked on the projector remote control, making the picture of a woman appear next to a map. Somehow, he got the headstart. “Paris!” He exclaimed excitedly—and in the most horrible accent.

And she wanted to murder him. 

Another click and the map zoomed to a particular French-looking street, the address popping up under it. 

“Nora Williams,” said Tony, pointing to the picture Ziva knew corresponded to their witness. “Has worked and lived in Paris for the last twelve years. Told us over the phone that she would cooperate with us because quote—it is what feels right”. Tony laughed incredulously. “Probably oblivious to what kind of op our major defense fraud case is. Dutiful. Courageous. Naive.” He whistled twice. “And a pretty red—”

He stopped, his smile vanishing. Looking at the witness’ photo, Tony hesitated, eyes darting between the screen and Gibbs’ blank expression. 

“I meant…” Tony gulped, correcting himself, “A pretty woman, boss.” 

And he should’ve stayed silent. But then it wouldn’t be DiNozzo. 

“With flaming locks of auburn hair,” he added, the joke shared almost as if it had escaped him. 

Gibbs’ eyes sent daggers in his direction so strongly that Ziva thought she saw Tony backing off, shrinking under his stare. She was nearly sure a second head slap was making its way to reality when Director Vance materialized next to them, coming from the stairs to Tony’s incredible luck. 

He was referring to what Ziva knew was Gibbs’ history with women, who looked so much like the case witness stamped on their television screen. 

“Ivory skin,” said Tony, his voice stranded. “And eyes of emerald green.”

“So, a whistle-blower…” Ziva still sought a definition. 

McGee nodded, sympathetic. “A person who informs on another person or an organization engaged in an illicit activity,” he explained. “Basically, a blabbermouth. But, for us, a direct source of information,” he pointed to the so-called Nora Williams. “She may be the answer to this case.”

“Jolene,” mumbled Tony. “Jolene.”

She sent him a look, weirded out. Tony merely smoothed his already ironed suit.

“Which means—she will need close protection during her trip overseas,” chimed in Vance, going back on track. “Confidential information like this means a high risk of life attempt. We’ll need to take her statement as soon as possible and, knowing SecNav, he’ll demand her presence here as shortly as a couple of days.” He then paused, stating, “Unfortunately, our Paris team isn’t available on such short notice.” 

Tony gasped. “Wow. But why aren’t they? Such ignorant behavior, I’ll tell you. And when you think they’d be there when we need them the most—” He tsked. But Ziva noticed the way a small smile was already creeping on his face. 

“I don’t think it’s ignorant behavior to be occupied handling the protection details of the Minister of the Navy of France, Agent DiNozzo.”

Tony nodded, almost too vehemently. She could see right through his lie. 

“Of course, Director,” he said impassively, though the glance he sent her way was anything but. 

Vance watched them, clearly weighing their options. Ziva knew if the NCIS Paris team wasn’t available for the task it meant they would have to take the matter into their own hands. 

Which also meant… One of them would be traveling abroad to escort their case witness. 

Ziva straightened her posture, angling her chin in the way that made her look most responsible. Out of the trio, she was the only woman - which was a clear advantage regarding their female testifier - but also, Ziva dared say, the most capable of them in handling assignments located abroad. 

She glanced at McGee, who must have also understood by now. He looked serious, eyes quickly darting to hers with the same objective. Tony merely chuckled, his hands inside his pockets. So differently from them, he seemed almost relaxed. Ziva narrowed her eyes, puffing her chest. She would not give that one up so easily.

Vance’s eyes landed on him, however.

“Agent DiNozzo?” he called.

Which was expected. He was the Senior Field Agent, after all. 

The biggest grin stretched over Tony’s face. He looked at them, smugness pouring out of his pores. 

And hierarchy be damned. Ziva was one breath away from murdering him right then and there. 

“Oui?” he asked, laughing. 

“Take Agent David.” Vance motioned at her with his chin. Ziva couldn’t fight her surprise. “And be efficient. We’ll need Mrs. Williams safe and testifying in front of the authorities as soon as you can. Paris…” He studied both of them, seeing something Ziva couldn’t place. “It’s an easy city to get distracted by. Your job is to escort our witness back to Washington safely. I trust you’ll both behave. Do not go wandering off.”

Tony was euphoric. He could hardly hide his glee. 

“We would never, sir,” he said. “Trust me. I’ll keep an eye on Probie here—” And to Ziva’s brimming irritation, walked toward her in big steps just to grab her arm. She looked at his hand, annoyed out of her mind. “I won’t let her,” he said. As if it would be her the one sprinting away. “We’ll be back in two days. Happy to deliver Mrs. Williams right to your doorstep, Director. Safe and sound. Oui, oui.” 

And Tony looked at her, his eyes sparkling as he said, “Right, David?”

Ziva only stared at him, not quite believing it. A whole trip abroad, a task so rare in their field trip books, to be wasted with such idiotic, annoying company like his. 

“Allons-why?” Tony winked, saying it wrong. 

And Ziva rolled her eyes, mumbling under her breath, “Oh, putain.” With no choice but to go with him—out of all people—to a place such as Paris.

The famous City of Love.

“To receive such a name, one would think Paris smelled like roses.” Taking out his sunglasses, his nose scrunches, definitely catching the foul odor coming from a nearby trash pile. The sidewalk is full of them. “Now I know why they invented Chanel Number 5 in France. To disguise whatever it is that’s going on here.” Tony gestures wildly. “It’s probably why a rat would feel comfortable cooking in this city.”

Ziva frowns, confused. A rat? Cooking? 

“I do not follow.”

He looks at her, saying, “Well, do you ever?” 

Ziva refrains from hitting him because of it. It isn’t she who’s speaking nonsense. 

Tony closes the taxi door and moves to take out their luggage from the trunk of the car. 

“The streets smell like rotten eggs,” he continues. And it’s almost amusing how disappointed he looks, so different from his earlier excitement. 

“I do not think it is the streets that smell that way.” Ziva waves her hand in front of her face, staring at him. “You should search for some deodorant, yes? It is the same word in French as in English.”

Tony sends her an irritated look but soon sniffs the armpits of his clothes, frowning slightly. 

Teasing him is too easy. She wants to laugh. 

“Ha-ha, David. It isn’t me who is so uncultured she doesn’t know Ratatouille.”

“I know ratatouille.” She passes past him to climb the stairs to their hotel lobby. Sending him a side-eyed glance, Ziva looks over her shoulder, saying, “The dish, yes? It is delicious. Tomatoes, zucchini, and peppers—I make a tremendous one.” It’s true. “But what does it have to do with a cooking rat?”

“A rat chef. Not a cooking rat.”

“So, a chef that is a rat?”

“More of a rat that is a chef. Y’know what? Don’t sweat on it.” 

“You already did for both of us, yes?” 

“Don’t blame me for needing a shower. It was an eight-hour flight.” 

“Oh, believe me,” she says, holding her breath. “I know.”

What she didn’t know was that McGee had booked them only one room. 

As she ascends the elevator in complete silence, Ziva mentally reminds herself to kick McGee in the shin as soon as they arrive back in Washington. She wonders if Tony had even realized when the concierge said only one room was available.

There’s a convention taking place at the hotel. Which is now fully booked during their stay there. And, apparently, Tony isn’t as bothered as her—as Ziva glances at him from inside the elevator, he only tidies up his spiky hair, takes out his sunglasses, and stares at his reflection in the mirror, his ego as big as ever. 

He notices her stare and smiles, winking. Ziva hates that she’s the one who needs to avert her eyes, getting flustered. It wasn’t this way. They used to bounce back with confidence, his womanizer persona so easy to be teased by someone as comfortable with her sexuality as she considered herself.

But this had changed. And she couldn’t pinpoint when, exactly, but it’s more difficult now. 

To play pretend. 

The elevator doors open and Ziva swallows, raising her chin high and turning her expression into indifference. If he isn’t bothered by the fact that they would need to spend the whole night in the confinements of the same room together, she wouldn’t be the one of them to make a big deal out of it. 

She wouldn’t. Because it wasn’t a big deal, right?

Right?

Ziva halts just before their numbered room, their luggage scraping over the carpet floor, to turn her key in the lock and open the old, squeaking door. 

And her heart is pounding.

And, immediately, she wants to flee. 

Ziva doesn’t know if they stay rooted to the floor for a minute too long or if it’s a product of her imagination. From outside the doorframe, she can discern a short aisle leading to an open space not very wide—a bed located in its center and a small table on each side, a couch on the opposite wall, and a television just above it. 

The bed is tiny. It is meant for two people, although Ziva’s nearly sure the European measurements are different from what she’s used to. There’s no way they’ll fit on that mattress without touching or sleeping comfortably while ignoring the other’s presence. She eyes the couch, its fabric worn and frail, and a couple of cushions that show her it isn’t meant for sleeping either. There’s a narrow balcony on the other side of the aisle, also just wide enough for two to stand outside at the same time. 

There’s a minibar and a small bathroom. And that’s it. No table, no chairs, and, virtually, no space. 

Her mind is going a thousand miles per minute, trying to devise a smart solution. How would they go around the topics that are forbidden yet so easy to dive into? It’s too enclosed a space for Ziva to run away from him. And she clocks it instantly that she won’t be able to. 

Her palms are sweating. There’s a tingling sensation in the back of her neck. 

Oh, she is going to murder McGee when she sees him. 

Tony’s the one to move first, taking wide strides toward the bed. He merely puts his bag on top of it and lunges himself onto the mattress, stretching his body to get the remote control and turn on the television. Completely unbothered. Infuriatingly indifferent to everything. 

Ziva only watches, ignoring her own heartbeat. Closing the door behind her, she can already feel how tiny the space is when she turns to face the bed again, which takes up most of the room. As Tony lays on top of the mattress, Ziva also sees how much space he occupies. 

Too much. He’s a tall American man with broad shoulders and long legs. Shoes already discarded on the floor. Black socks on his feet. A hand under his head and a slight frown as he concentrates on understanding the voices resonating inside the small bedroom. 

“There are only French channels in here,” complains Tony. “We might as well have no TV.” 

“We do not need it,” she says intently. “We are only here to sleep.”

Tony makes a beeping sound with his mouth, saying, “Wrong, Probette. We need to buy everyone souvenirs. I was thinking about an Eiffel Tower keychain for Tim.” He chuckles to himself. “Maybe we can rub it in his face the way he fell on the Probie rank. I fell. Get it? And then some—”

“Tony,” Ziva interrupts. She can’t let him simply take her to explore Paris of all places. Heavens, there wouldn’t be a bigger mistake than that. “We will be staying at the hotel.” Ziva brings the subject to a close, pulling her suitcase to the edge of the bed. “Otherwise, there will not be enough time for you to rest—”

“Jet lag,” cuts in Tony. “It makes it impossible for us not to fall asleep.”

Their eyes meet. And perhaps it is the fact that they both know the circumstances are too fragile for them not to joke about it. Or perhaps it’s something else entirely. But Tony’s eyes sparkle with the unspoken anyway. He almost smiles—the corners of his mouth twisting slightly upward.

And Ziva is suddenly aware that he knows about the possible consequences of them staying a night together in the same room. He knows that the bed is tiny. He knows that they are alone. 

And he knows this is the most romantic city in the world. 

And he isn’t going to help her ignore it. 

She breathes in deeply, looking elsewhere. “We should be following orders.” Yes. This is an assignment. Those were the Director’s orders. There should be a degree of responsibility for them to be held accountable for. 

He snorts. “The ever dutiful agent.” 

“This is not a vacation, Tony.”

“We’re in France, Ziva. When will you loosen up?” Ziva doesn’t miss the slight edge on his voice. “We’ll just grab some bite to eat and be back soon, don’t worry. Plenty of time to sleep before continuing our important work.”

She knows he wanted to explore the city. Tony had been talking about it the whole plane ride there. Glancing at her wristwatch, it shows her it’s still the middle of the afternoon. As much as it would be wiser to simply ignore where they were for the whole stay there, Ziva agrees that they indeed have to eat something. And the hotel room is so small, she dislikes asking for room service there. 

Ziva glances at Tony, who is still concentrating on surfing the channels available on the television, all of them sounding French. If her hesitation to his invitation bothers him, he hides his reaction well. She eyes how he’s occupying most of the bed and settles on the most reasonable decision, at the moment. 

“OK,” says Ziva, agreeing with him despite everything. “I will take the couch, then.”

“You’re too big for it,” Tony interjects immediately. 

“And you are not?” chuckles Ziva, not quite believing it. 

“Well.” He looks at her, teasing, “Can’t say I haven’t heard that line before.” 

A wide grin spreads on his face as Ziva catches the innuendo. 

She scoffs. “How old are you?” she asks. “Twelve?”

“Give or take a few years.” Tony focuses his attention on the screen again, saying, “The floor is fine.”

“You cannot sleep on the floor, Tony.”

“This is Paris. I’ll sleep in the streets if need be.”

“With your rat friends, yes?”

A scowl and he’s turning off the television, silence meeting the room. 

Which is bad. Ziva can hear her heartbeat, loud in her throat again. It gallops and it misses a beat when Tony stands up to face her. A few steps later he’s looming over her, entering her personal space. Her vision turns blurry as he gets too close and she has to focus on steading her breathing to not reveal any reaction to him. 

Tony’s eyes do an elevator motion over her face. Ziva angles her chin up toward him, refusing to back down. 

“The bed fits both of us,” he says, blinking slowly. He tracks her face and… whatever he sees makes him smile. 

And Ziva scoffs lightly at what Tony is suggesting. The bed may fit them both but he is a fool if he thinks she’ll sleep with him. Or maybe she’s the fool. As Ziva refuses to give up, she tilts her head, a motion she knows gets to him. But maybe Tony’s too confident today. It feels like he knows something she doesn’t. And, as she stares at him, his smile simply broadens, eyes sparkling with some untold secret.

“Miss David. Please refrain from jumping at the opportunity to sleep with me.”

“It is not like that. We have shared a bed before.”

“Yes.” Tony’s eyes roam over her face. “So, what’s the issue?”

He’s daring her to say it. Ziva suddenly wants to laugh. They both know what the issue is. Exchanging a single look, they don’t even have to say it out loud—years into knowing each other, the attraction is undeniable. The silent sizzling of the magnetic pull. Yes, they gave into it a few times now, but the last slip had been a long time ago. She couldn’t even recall when exactly, perhaps before he traveled abroad to work as a Special Agent Afloat. Though there had been too many almost-situations by now that they both knew if they had different lives, something deeper would be happening. Or perhaps not deep at all.

Perhaps they would’ve finally let the walls cave in and invested in what both of them already knew was true. It is so rare to find someone who matches every desire she feels. 

Complicated is an understatement. 

Tony averts his eyes first, still smiling. “C’mon,” he says, and Ziva notices that the issue remains unaddressed—neither of them knows of the sleeping arrangements for the night. 

“I’ll take that shower while you search for restaurants.” Tony snaps his fingers, heading for the bathroom. “Think Italian. They never disappoint.” He winks. And despite her false confidence, her thoughts stray far enough for Ziva to feel her cheeks grow warm. 

“But we are in France,” she argues. 

“We can always add French fries.”

A bite to eat turned out to be a lot more. With his digital camera, Tony ended up leading her to the city center, rambling about which ones of his movies had been filmed in France and taking photos of nearly everything. The streets, the cafés, the European cars. Ziva had been to Paris before, although in very different circumstances. Rarely did her missions from Mossad let her explore the city that freely. She knew a few places. They walked across the Tuileries Gardens to get to the Louvre and Tony halted every two minutes to comment about something. How the French people dressed. What it would be like to live there. If the purpose of the Eiffel Tower was only to sparkle.

Ziva wasn’t surprised by how fun of a travel companion he was—his silly comments evoked her laughter so easily—but he did surprise her. Frequently. Ziva was distracted taking in the sights of the intricate gardens and marble statues when DiNozzo simply shoved a half-melting ice cream cone in her hand, no words spoken. The reprimand quickly died in her throat when she saw him licking his chocolate one like an eight-year-old, laughing like a boy. Temptatively, Ziva tasted hers. Lemon. Just as she liked it.

It was hard not to find him endearing. 

They eventually found their way to the shops. Tony spent twenty minutes debating if they should take something to Palmer in addition to McGee and Abby, and thank God he settled for an Arc du Triomphe magnet instead of a horrible beret. It wasn’t long until Ziva felt herself relaxing, basking under the afternoon sun and enjoying the European views. In a place so different than their work environment, she later found out that his personality distracted her more often than annoyed her. It did annoy her. But Ziva eventually grew to enjoy his company and constant babbling, without truly realizing it. 

She’s debating about which postcards to take home when a clicking sound materializes next to her, Tony’s digital camera hiding his face as he snaps a photograph. He looks at the camera viewfinder a moment after and Ziva’s intrigued about the reason he’s smiling quietly to himself, wondering if she was making a weird face when the photo was taken. 

He doesn’t tell her, though, and quickly pockets the small camera away, still half-smiling. Ziva narrows her eyes but doesn’t question him further—knowing DiNozzo he would surely tease her about it if so—and soon they are on their way again, leisurely browsing similar souvenir shops. 

The afternoon stretches into the evening and soon the sky is indigo blue, cloudless above their heads. Children are taken home by their parents and the parks get slowly vacant, filled by couples walking unhurriedly holding hands. Birds follow their route from tree to tree and Ziva stumbles on tired feet, the soles of her shoes scrapping the narrow streets’ cobblestones. The tiredness of the journey suddenly weighs on her and she sways, missing her foot. In a blink, Tony’s steady arm is there to support her, without her even having to say a word. It’s as if he’s always watching her. Always paying attention even if in the back of his mind. 

She clears her throat, releasing his arm and hugging her middle to get some false sense of security. 

One side glance later and Ziva catches Tony smirking again, looking the other way. 

“What is so funny?” she asks, scowling.

That makes him halt on his steps, smiling infuriatingly relaxed with his hands inside his pockets. 

It seems like he’s about to say something but Tony hesitates, looking across the street. They’re getting close to their hotel again, making the route back. She follows where he’s looking at. 

“Wanna become European for the night?” he asks, motioning to the small café on the other side of the street.

An outdoor space is filled with wooden chairs and iron bar stools occupied by people already midway through their mimosas and Aperol spritz, chatting loudly and eating.

“Heard they serve the best cheap wine in the city,” Tony adds with a raised eyebrow. 

Ziva surveys the small French bistro, amused by how it feels like yet another puzzle piece to whatever secret haven they were building together. She debates where this would take them—a dinner with him in a place so different from where they were from. They know no one there. They are strangers, people they would never see again. It is so rare for Ziva to feel like she isn’t bound by the already defined list of responsibilities engraved in her mind. It’s even rarer for her to feel this comfortable. 

For him to be the one looking at her with eyes so earnest. 

The Director was right. 

It is hard not to be entranced by Paris. 

“One bottle would not hurt, yes?” Ziva hears herself saying. Her heart races. Damn it.

“One for each of us. Don’t know what they’re serving back in Israel but you sure drink like a dying sailor.”

Tony guides her toward the café with a gentle hand on the small of her back. 

Butterflies butterflies butterflies. 

Ziva scoffs, trying to hide them. “We are on duty,” she reminds him. They shouldn’t be drinking that much. 

But Tony shakes his head, correcting her. “Tomorrow,” he says with a wink. And somehow, it’s so attractive. Ziva’s heart skips a beat. “Tomorrow, we’re on duty,” Tony says. “Tonight… Tonight we’re in Paris.” A smile stretches on his face. 

And to her, at that moment in her life, there are no more perfect words than that.

Swaying drunk under the street lights in the middle of the night is a good definition of what Paris may someday mean to her. On the banks of the River Seine, the Victorian lamp posts cast shadows over them, and Ziva feels like they somehow secretly created a special place only they had the keys to. A perfect night inside the safety of a delicate snow globe.

Oh, moonlit Paris.

She’s wearing her velvet coat but the air is chilly and she has to hug her middle to keep from shivering. The wind blows through her hair and the tip of her nose feels numb. She has no idea how they got there. But the Eiffel Tower rising above them on the other side of the river and Tony carrying the second bottle of wine they couldn’t finish in the restaurant are good indications that they’re in a precious place very far from home. 

Away from any kind of problem. Away from the pressure so frequently on her shoulders. In the back of her mind, Ziva knew this would happen. But in the end, she can’t help but feel it anyway—she wishes the night would simply last forever. She wishes they could stay like that—laughter bubbling inside her chest as Tony slurs over his words, giggling about something silly. Taking a sip of the wine and sharing the bottle with her. Walking just a little bit too close. Tracking the smile on her face, staring longer than usual. Oh, she would smile like that forever if it meant it got him to look at her that way. 

The glances linger. Laughing gets easy. She knows that the Navy yard will never pay for the dinner—that it was he who paid for the two steaks au poivre and bottles of Bordeaux. It’s best to ignore what that means. Tony insisted on ordering in French. When she was afraid the waiter would punch his so American face for it, though, she interfered, taking the reins of the situation. His accent was truly terrible. But they ate and drank and talked about nothing of importance. And Ziva slowly realized he was the only one she never grew tired of having fun with. The fun never ended. She found herself wanting to stay near him.  Drifting toward him.

To not grow tired of him felt important in some way. 

She looks at him, ambling on the riverbank with a whole bottle of wine swaying back and forth. Tony returns the look, smiling at her with the corner of his eye. Ziva averts her gaze again for the tenth time that night, suddenly interested in all the metal plates of the Eiffel Tower. It’s late enough to be fully illuminated.

The stars are out and it’s just for them. 

Everything feels like a dream. 

“That’s it,” says Tony, resolute. “I’m buying a Vespa.”

A bubble of laughter expands on Ziva’s chest and the improbability of it. She watches as he scowls at a guy riding past them, the yellow Vespa disappearing into the night.

“You do not have money to fix your own car. What will you do with a Vespa?” 

“Don’t care. We can go to the movies,” he says. And she doesn’t miss the ‘we’ inside that phrase. “That would be cool. Very Top Gunny of me. You look like one who would enjoy a motorcycle ride.”

“I am not young anymore, Tony.”

“But I bet you can still rock a leather jacket. Besides, would you deny a ride with me?”

He sways closer, shoulder bumping onto hers. Ziva feels her cheeks grow warm. Inhaling deeply, she tries to find what’s left of her composure. And looks at him again, suddenly feeling giddy.

“No,” she’s honest. “No, I would not.”

Tony must have been surprised by her bluntness because he halts for a bit, taking another sip of wine. 

“Good,” he says. “Good to know.” And before he looks the other way, there’s a hidden smile. The bottle of wine is shoved in her hand. He silently invites her to share it with him. 

“C’mon,” Tony asks. Not a second later. “Tell me a secret.”

Ziva laughs at it, baffled. “What? Now?”

Still, she looks at the wine bottle in her hands. And finds herself sipping it too, putting her mouth where just before had been graced by his lips. 

“Do you think this is what happened to them?”

“Who?” Ziva asks, frowning.

Tony looks at her. As if debating this would be a topic of conversation he should stray away from. Still, eventually, he replies. 

“Gibbs and Jenny.”

Ziva’s heart gallops. He’s implying their former bosses went on a similar path and… she knows what happened to them in Paris. She misses the Director. She met her during an undercover op in Egypt so Ziva knows how much of herself Jenny gave away when work required her to. From what she remembers of her, Jenny was a tremendous agent. Ziva truly felt connected to her. 

But Ziva also knows Gibbs. She knows they shared a deeper connection from the times that they were partners. In the back of her mind, Ziva also knows that this city played a huge part in what happened between them. But after Director Sheppard was gone, it was hard to think of anything but her ending. As miserable as it was, her death had been too hurtful to remember anything else. They had talked about Paris after she was gone. But that had been too long ago. 

“What do you mean by ‘this’?” asks Ziva. She dreads Tony’s answer. But she needs to understand what he’s insinuating.

“Y’know. The two of them in another country.” He kicks pebbles off the street. “Together on an undercover mission. Confined in a hotel bedroom for God knows how long. Having to play different people, putting their lives daily on the line,” Tony says. “It’s easy to blur the lines when you’re so filled with adrenaline and sexual tension like that.”

The air gets thick. The bottle of wine feels cold on her hand. Ziva doesn’t know if Tony is looking at her or not because she can only stare straight ahead. Otherwise, she knows that if she looked at him for merely a moment, the truth would be laid bare on her face. They don’t usually voice the occurrences that happen between them. But then again, Tony wasn’t talking about them, right? He was reflecting upon Gibbs and Jenny. A lifetime ago. They had to work undercover playing two people who needed to be clearly in love. It had nothing to do with them, right?

Right?

Ziva clears her throat, deciding to not fall into his trap. “Those were different circumstances,” she points out. 

Tony hums, saying, “Not what I meant.”

So, she was right. Ziva doesn’t acknowledge how her chest feels a little colder at his reply. 

“They are nothing like us,” she adds.

“No,” he agrees.

And the silence stretches. 

And Ziva almost forgets where they are, what they’re doing. But as she keeps watching the river, a warmer hand brushes against hers, taking the bottle of wine. It’s humiliating, but as insignificant as the touch is, it takes her heartbeat quickly to sky-high. And as she glances at Tony, a half-smile shows her his true intentions. 

That it isn’t really what he believes in. 

“I bet they were hot in their youth,” he guesses. “Everyone is hot in their thirties. Especially when you’re bound to see the same person every day and have to trust them enough not to get you killed.” A beat passes. Ziva doesn’t say a thing about how much it resembles them. “I bet it was her who initiated things.”

What is that supposed to mean?

Ziva narrows her eyes, getting suspicious. Still, Tony merely drinks, sipping the wine. It colors his lips pink. He catches her staring. Damn it. Late at night, she isn’t at her best mind. Hiding turns difficult when everything looks this romantic.

Sharing red wine under the starry sky of Paris. Ziva sighs. He couldn’t have played her better.

“Tony,” she reprimands. Trying to come up with a way to change the subject at any cost.

“What? What’s the fun of a job if we can’t speculate about our bosses?”

“This is not our business, yes?”

“So do you think it was him?” 

“Please, stop talking. I do not want that picture in my head.” 

“You’re right,” he ignores her. “It could’ve been him. He’s very popular with the ladies, for some reason.”

Ziva gets exasperated. “Tony. I did not—”

“Perhaps it’s the hair? The absolute expertise in shortening his sentences to a couple of words? It’s hard to resist the white fox when he’s as charming as a fax machine.”

“Would you please—”

“But it’s so simple. They Casablanca-ed themselves.”

She stares at him, trying to gauge what he means by his expression. But Tony is now walking looking fully relaxed again, one of his hands inside his pocket, the other still swaying the bottle of wine. It annoys her how at ease he is with this whole situation while she’s doing her best not to flee. Take all the double meanings bubbling underneath the surface and go back running to their hotel. Go back to Washington even, and not say a word about it. 

Her hands feel cold. Ziva crosses her arms, closing the space to earn a false sense of courage. 

“What is simple?” she asks, too curious. 

With a side-eyed glance, Tony doesn’t hide his judgment toward her. “There will come a day when I’ll give up explaining the plot of brilliant masterpieces to you,” he says. 

She mumbles under her breath, “Let us hope that day comes soon.” But doesn’t really mean it.

He snorts but explains it anyway. 

“Casablanca. 1942. Bogart must choose between his love for a woman and helping her husband escape from the Vichy-controlled city of Casablanca. Rick, Ilsa, and Victor—the golden Oscar of love triangles. After Ilsa married Laszlo, he had to return to Prague, where he was arrested and put in a concentration camp. Months later, she heard he was killed in an escape attempt. She met Rick shortly thereafter. Ilsa learned Laszlo was still alive just when she and Rick were about to leave Paris together. She begs that he helps her husband escape.” Tony halts, sighing. “It is one of the greatest movies ever made. And an inconceivable mistake that you have not heard about. Inconceivable,” complains Tony. “Which reminds me of another movie—”

“I have heard about it,” Ziva interrupts him and prevents what would surely be another endless stream of information.

“So have you seen it?” His tone is visibly hopeful. 

She had. But it was more entertaining to see his face lighting up whenever he explained in detail every movie plot to her. So, over the years, it was rare for Ziva to tell him about the movies she’d watched. It was better to see Tony losing himself in them. 

“That is not what I said.” She hides the lie with a smile. 

Tony frowns at her. Still, he continues. “Long story short, they drift apart. Ilsa boards the plan with Victor. It’s a great ending. She leaves. Rick stays. But they’ll always have memories of their love affair during the time spent together.” He looks at her intently, saying, “In Paris.”

And it’s hard not to blush under his stare. Tony’s an expert at the art of flirting in secrecy. He tailors his words in a way he knows will go imperceptibly to everyone else, but not to her. She sees him right through them. She knows what his intentions are. 

And, walking close to him half-drunk in the middle of the night, Ziva suddenly realizes there’s no going back now.

This would change them. Yet another puzzle piece in the wide map that was their story.

Paris would change her. It already did. 

“So,” she breathes, feeling flustered. “Do you think it only happened once when they stayed in Paris, and never again?”

Tony grows pensive but eventually nods. “Yes,” he settles. “From what I know, their undercover mission stretched over months but once it was over, it was over. They Casablanca-ed themselves, remember? She probably wanted it to happen again, though.”

Bait or not, it makes Ziva laugh.

“Now you are being a chauvinist.”

“They didn’t get married, did they?” he asks, tracking the smile on her face.

“Why would they get married?” she questions him. 

“Do you even know Gibbs?” Tony replies. “He married three different women. And let’s not even dive into the fact they could’ve been her sisters.” He scoffs in disbelief. “Can’t argue that the boss has taste but he should’ve made it a little bit less obvious—”

“So, he charmed her for a night and there were no feelings involved?”

That gets Tony to stop talking, the air getting thick. He ponders. Oh, point for her. 

Ziva’s proud of her own wit. 

“On the contrary,” he settles. “I believe there were many feelings involved. That was why it was a love affair and not simply casual sex.”

The silence stretches again. And, under the starry midnight sky of Paris, Ziva can’t help but feel like seventeen again. A teenage girl. The butterflies fluttering inside her chest are part of her now—the thrill expanding every time he says things like that. It’s difficult not to fall for it. 

It’s even more difficult not to fall in love.

“I do not believe it.” Ziva doesn’t give him that one so easily. 

“Didn’t you see the way they looked at each other? The longing glances, the secrets. Four walls and the excuse of a foreign mission… Like Hepburn said. Everything can happen in Paris.” 

Tony smiles.

And she knows it means trouble. 

She smiles as well, unable to not be drawn to it. Trouble has followed her forever. 

Might as well be the thing that united them, tonight.

“And what is your secret, Tony?” she asks, trying to stop smiling. She fails. 

Halting his steps, he looks at her for a beat too long. Stares at her under the moonlight, the secret dancing in his eyes. 

Then he replies, “I can’t tell you that.” Tony starts walking again. “This is not a night for truth or dare.”

“But you asked me that!” Ziva refutes him.

“Because you were so tense.” He turns on his feet, looking back at the spot where she had stayed. Walking backward, Tony grins again, the way his cheeks stretch making him look ten times more handsome. 

“And now I am much better, yes?” huffs Ziva.

“Now your lips are pink.”

The easy flirting dances in his eyes. Tony stops ahead and waits for her to catch his steps, looking straight at her mouth. The glance lingers. He smirks, and then his tongue wets his lips. He wants to kiss her. And she gets flustered again, having to look the other way. 

Good heavens, she wants him to kiss her. 

Ziva feels her heart about to burst. 

“It is cold,” she says.

“Here, have more wine. Let’s finish this up and let it warm us. Otherwise, we’ll have no choice but to warm each other all night.” Tony’s eyebrows shoot skyward at her brazen expression. “With body heat, Miss David. What do you think I meant?”

Ziva’s mind is filled with thoughts of him. 

Why couldn’t this night last forever?

“Something different, for a second,” she replies. And his gaze alone makes her feel warm.

“Were you thinking something different?” Tony presses.

And Ziva loves the look on his face when she replies.

“It is body heat all the same.”

The bathroom mirror gets fogged up quickly from the temperature she puts the water on to take her shower. But Ziva can still discern her reflection, looking back at her with concerned eyes, a deep frown on her brow and nervously chewing her lower lip. She brushes her hair once, twice, too many times. Until she knew her worry had dissipated with the forceful motion of the brush and now she can breathe. 

She can leave the small hotel bathroom to meet the man waiting for her on the other side of the door. 

They were too drunk when they reached the hotel room. Bumping shoulders and swaying against one another inside the elevator. She laid a hand on his chest after a particularly silly joke she can’t remember anymore and Tony stared at it, focus unmoving. If not for the elevator doors opening on their floor, perhaps Ziva would still be touching him. Perhaps they would still be looming close, his good-looking face mere inches from hers. Perhaps one of them would’ve been brave enough to do more than just stare. She wanted to touch him. She wanted the night to be one to remember. She remembers him well. 

She wanted to remind him of it. 

From the loaded glances Tony had sent her all night, Ziva knew the nervous thrill she was feeling in the pits of her stomach wasn’t merely a figment of her imagination. She knows him well enough now to expect something of that regard - whether it was simply insinuation or a silent invitation to finally act - although she hopes with her whole heart it is the latter. They were about to share a tiny bed. Getting drunk on wine made her head spin. And he’s right there.

Right there, waiting. Waiting for her.

Ziva tidies up her hair in front of the mirror and plumps her lips for good measure. Conscientiously or not, she chose to bring one of her nightgowns—soft black silk coming to an end in the middle of her thighs—not knowing she would be paired up with Tony in the same freaking room. Still, now she thanks her past self for being inhibited. She didn’t know whether he would appreciate it or not but usually even just wearing clothes she didn’t wear daily got the desired effect on him. A simple pencil skirt got him double-checking these days. 

She didn’t know her heart could beat this fast. Clutching her Star of David pendant, Ziva wonders if she’s strong enough to do this. Over her arms and shoulders, new scars stretch her skin now. Her thighs are marked. She hopes Tony doesn’t notice. For all the suffering she had already faced in her life, she didn’t want to be reminded how weak she was to get them. How low in the pit of shame she reached. 

Desire stirs inside her chest. She remembers how his hands feel on her. The absolute right kind of touch—tender and hungry. Seen. She felt seen with a man like him. Ziva doesn’t even need to close her eyes to feel Tony’s touch. The expertise. The laughter, long shared in the dark. 

Once they arrived in the hotel room, Ziva nearly jumped toward the bathroom, closing herself inside the walls that would give her some kind of comfort for the time being. He felt intoxicating. Funny, selfless, good in conversation, and interested in her… Ziva doesn’t remember when he got that handsome. Now, she can’t even look at him properly without letting her mind wander. Everything Tony does is distracting. 

And he’s so near. Ziva’s hand hovers over the bathroom door handle, half-hoping he notices what she’s wearing, half wishing he doesn’t. With her heart thundering inside her chest, she says a final prayer to herself before yanking the door open, knowing that if she didn’t do it this way she would never leave that cubicle tonight. 

It’s dark inside the suite. The window is closed but the curtains are open, moonlight spilling inside the room and warm yellow light shining from nearby building windows. It takes some time to adjust her eyesight to darkness. Still, Ziva takes a tentative step toward the center of the room and walks toward what she knows is the most and only important part of it—the bed. 

To see a figure sprawled on top of it, one shoe on his foot and the other thrown on the floor, his white button-down half opened and arms hanging languidly from the sides of the mattress. 

Undoubtedly asleep. 

Her heart falls. Ziva doesn’t want to acknowledge the wave of disappointment that inundates her once she realizes the desires they cultivated their whole night abroad wouldn’t lead anywhere. They couldn’t act upon them when they returned home. They couldn’t talk about the forbidden—as much as some of Gibbs’ rules were a bit too extreme, they were there for a reason. They couldn’t date coworkers.

They couldn’t date one another.

This night would never repeat itself. 

It was too good to be true. 

For a second, Ziva debates waking him up. But soon decides not to. It isn’t her place to make decisions for him and… she believes in signs. Too much wine was never clever to drink this time of the night. 

It was better for Tony to rest for tomorrow than for them to do something they would both later regret. 

She just spent a whole half an hour inside the bathroom for nothing. Maybe if she hadn’t taken so long… but no. Watching his chest rise and fall softly in the dark, Ziva is filled with a tenderness she can’t explain. He didn’t question why she fled as soon as they got to the room. He didn’t even rush her. 

She eyes the small couch, knowing neither would fit there. Tony is sprawled on the bed but only on one side of it. Silently, trying to make the less noise necessary, Ziva tiptoes barefoot toward him. She takes the other shoe, depositing it on the side of the bed. Puts his other leg on top of the mattress. Tony stirs but doesn’t wake up. 

His eyes are still closed, lightly resonating. 

Noiselessly, Ziva makes her way toward the other side of the bed. Fully clothed, she lets Tony the way he is but takes the covers, laying silently on his side. With enough space awareness, she’s able to maneuver herself not to touch him. Still, it’s impossible not to feel him. His presence—so real and warm next to her. 

Closing her eyes, Ziva smiles softly to herself. This is a good ending to that night. It was so enchanting, she didn’t want to spoil it. 

Oh, Paris.

She loves Paris, now. 

Ziva doesn’t know how long she keeps staring into the moonlit sky. She doesn’t touch him. She doesn’t say a thing. But she thinks a whole lot. About his words, his laughter, and the electrifying shock that happened every time his fingertips brushed hers when they were walking by the river. His easy charm, the beautiful sights, and freedom. So much freedom in such a beautiful city. It is with Tony and Paris in mind that Ziva drifts off to sleep. Peaceful.

But not for long.

Sweltering, endless heat. The air feels suffocating. She already couldn’t breathe properly, unending days being spent in that dirty, airless cell. Now with a thick cloth put over her head… Ziva’s lips are chapped from trying to catch what’s left of rare oxygen. Sweat has clogged her pores and nostrils and she feels dirty everywhere. Everywhere. She could scrub her skin for hours and would still feel their hands on her, crawling freely over her arms and legs. She wanted to set it on fire. She wanted to die. Simply be skinned alive—wondering if that would be enough to burn what’s left of her demons before the end looms so near. 

She wonders if the death of her family was more merciful. Thrown into the darkness of that cell with only fear as a company, Ziva has glimpses of clarity before she faints again, both from exhaustion and low blood sugar. Her tongue tastes of copper from biting it so frequently. There are too many near scares. Even a low scratch of a boot far away on that same floor level would make her jump, filling her heart with fear. 

Petrifying, unfamiliar fear. 

She wonders if Tali was scared before she died. Ziva hopes she didn’t even notice it. When her soul was taken away, Ziva wished her sister simply blinked and was gone, no suffering gracing her end. She wonders if Ari saw the betrayal before it happened. Ziva knew he did. Selfishly, she was grateful she was the one granting him such a quick goodbye, his swift departure. She’s glad no one of them was captured alive. 

She guesses it would make sense for it to be her. Her past was filled with blood and terror, her future would be too. Not even the ghosts had stayed. She’s completely alone. It felt fitting that Ziva would die alone, after so long betraying everyone she loved, after so long playing God to strangers. So many had been killed by her hand. She should’ve run farther before finding such tragedy. But there wouldn’t even be a tragedy if she inflicted the death herself. Only if it was stretched out by others. 

Ziva does not mean to live through it. In the beginning, her mind was still conjuring up plans to escape. Counting how many exits and turns as they descended to hell; how many voices were speaking before she grew accustomed to the darkness. Saving her energy to pick up who were the leaders. Waiting for the best time to attack, waiting for backup. 

Backup that never arrived. A time that was consumed by her hands and feet bound too tight and hunger eating her insides, slowly and in agony. No one can go mad over boredom; or over foreign languages and abandonment. Over hunger, yes. Over unending torture - a concept she was so skilled at - Ziva lost her mind completely. 

Completely alone. She couldn’t even blame him—Eli David. The lost little girl had been gone long ago, along with anything that resembled love between her father and her. To him, she was a soldier. She was merely another asset. And assets could be spent, if it meant more would be gained than lost. She wasn’t even disappointed.

But Ziva was already grieving. Grieving how she should’ve killed herself before that. She’d had many opportunities to win a swift end before she got to where she was - a dark cell waiting for the next round of torment - but decided to stay hopeful instead. 

Hope was a quality that had become part of her because of those years working for NCIS. She knew it. She knew it had been embedded in her, how things would eventually end up well simply because she wasn’t alone there. She had a team, a family. Tony, McGee, Gibbs, Abby, even Ducky, Jimmy and Vance. They all cared for her. For a short while, they all did. She had done that—earn that trust. She also trusted them, even if for a moment. Ziva likes to think they would’ve tried to save her. It made her feel less alone. In the final moments, maybe they would miss her. Like she misses her family. Her dear friends.

They would never come. They had no idea where she was. She chose to leave them. Yet another one of her mistakes.

There had been more than a few times now Ziva had tried to inflict that quick end on herself. She was close once. With one of their knives already within her reach and the right words to dissuade them, she almost did it. Courage wasn’t lacking in Ziva David. She would do it, if necessary. What was lacking was strength. Willpower. Her mind thinking clearly. 

They injected all kinds of serums. Truth serum. One that made her sleep for days until she woke up to the putrid smell of her own vomit. Another one that made her see things, all kinds of visions that in the end she had no idea were true or not.

She dreamed of being rescued a thousand times. In a delirious state of near-death experiences, Ziva often found herself laughing hysterically, talking to shadows, and abiding by fever. Laughing until she cried. Silently, with no one to share anything with anymore. Tears spilled in grief until she fell asleep, too tired to be counting the minutes until one of the men came to her out of boredom again. 

Inflicting pain had never been an issue. She could deal with pain. She knew her body had limitations and didn’t care for new scars if the soul had already vanished. Cigarette burns on her thighs and small cuts on her ribs, it’s cruelty spent only to draw new blood. She shrieked loudly and she thrashed around but she never spoke. Not once. Part of her had already grown mute, searching for answers that would never come. She spat on their faces and fought till she couldn’t; until her body wasn’t hers anymore but now only theirs. 

Even a fighter like Ziva couldn’t go against thirty armed men. She plotted and schemed, winning in intelligence and letting them think she wasn’t feeling any of it—that strangers’ hands and familiar torture wouldn’t affect her as they did with others—but eventually, she knew they’d seen the truth. She knew, with time, that even her ironsteel mind wasn’t impenetrable. Their laughter only grew louder once they understood. She went to deep places within herself to run away from dirty skin and pain. They changed posts frequently—it was like she was an animal. 

But no animal deserved to have this kind of end. 

Delirious, Ziva still dreamed of the end. She tried to stop eating but they injected it in her when they put her to sleep, and she was unable to get progressively weaker like she wanted. She tried to convince them to kill her. She tried to kick and to scream and to give up trying. But no one came. Who would be looking for a ghost in the middle of the desert? Her own father had put her in there. She had abandoned the rest of her friends. No one would come. 

It broke her. That piece of information was the one that broke her. How her newly made, so dear friends would never know how long it took till her last breath was drawn. She stared and stared into the darkness, the salt of her tears stinging the skin of her hurt cheeks as she imagined what it would be like to laugh with them again. To play with McGee. To make jokes with Tony…

Tony. He would never know. Ziva couldn’t count the times she thought of him. She found that no other thought could bring her peace as much as him. And it was a surprising discovery to make. In the darkest hours when men beat her and the cuts stung and she couldn’t see a thing but terrorizing fear, his face had popped into mind. The first time it happened, even her screams had stopped. They used her body in a completely different dimension, painlessly. Because Ziva’s mind was filled with the image of Tony’s face, dimples on his cheeks, and silly joking. 

After losing Michael Rivkin, Ziva wasn’t so sure about Tony’s place in her life. After Israel and their big fight. But still, there he was—the smile of her partner popping into her mind every time she needed to see it again. 

Silent tears fell and she stared into the darkness, a stream of images of his face conjured up from throughout the years. Bickering, playful remarks, and laughter. So much laughter. Belly laughing in each other’s apartments and the lovely stretch of silence when it ended, gazes meeting. Partnership. Loyalty. 

So much love stored in her heart for him. 

This was the only time Ziva managed not to react. At all. The captors came and went, disappointed by her lack of screaming. Her hands shook from the revelation. The sheer shock of loss. She stared at nothing. Without enough water or sleep, her throat was always hurting. But this time, in the dark, she somehow breathed out his name. 

“What?” Saleem’s voice snapped at her. Fear inundated her. She thought he had left, along with his companions. 

Ziva’s heart raced as she kept the name on the tip of her tongue, the one secret she would take to the grave. 

“What did you just say, Navy?”

He called her that. They frequently reminded her of the purpose of her capture. To acquire important intel, to break her deep enough for her to spill the secrets of the agency. But Ziva never talked about it. They knew she was only there for a short time. That she was Mossad. But it didn’t matter. Some small part of her thought they were more keen on the torture than everything. 

Saleem advanced on her. She could hear it from the way his feet moved, boots scrapping the hard floor. Ziva’s hands were bound tightly and a brand new cut was slashed open across the exposed skin of her back. Still, Saleem grabbed her shoulders, turning her to face him. She hissed at the pain and heavy nausea made her salivate, a distant reminder that she was about to pass out. 

“What did you just say?” pressed Saleem, his voice urgent. “You said something.”

Ziva’s heart thundered. One of her eyes was too swollen to even open neatly. But as she focused her vision on the other one, she saw Saleem’s face—wild prying eyes trying to know her secrets. Secrets not even she clearly understood herself. 

He grabbed her by the tangled hair, pulling it until it hurt. Ziva took a sharp intake of breath, sweating. She could feel the warm blood trickling down the skin of her back. It should get infected. Maybe out of delirious fever would be a good option to go. But they also knew that. When she was about to pass out from exhaustion, every time she woke up it was the same—she was still there. No infection. Perhaps they gave her medication as well. It was wiser to keep her alive, either as leverage or as a captive. There truly was no other way. 

“You said something,” repeated Saleem, pulling her hair from the scalp. “What?”

And perhaps it was the image of Tony that gave her strength. Or perhaps it was that familiar reminder of his attitude, still shining brightly inside her chest.

Ziva blinked, eyelids feeling weak. Her throat hurt like hell. Yet, she managed to speak, for what felt like the first time in days. 

“I said—” Ziva smiled, defiant. Her voice was as hoarse as gravel. “Lech tizdayen.”

Fuck you. 

An immediate slap echoed in the dark. Ziva lost balance and fell, her vision clouding again. The skin of her cheek stang with the force. She felt so tired. So tired. Sleep… Saleem’s boots stepped on the fingers of her hand and a scream rose from her throat, waking her up again. 

“Next time you tell us something, make sure it is useful.” Saleem leaned close to her face, snarking. “I’m sure you like your pretty fingers more than NCIS.”

And fear only stayed for a second before the blissful wave of exhaustion claimed her. Ziva didn’t even catch Saleem leaving before she passed out in the darkness.

Tony, stumbling on his feet to be the first to talk to women who always ended up paying no heed to him. Tony, laughing like a child from across his desk as he bothered McGee endlessly with paper balls and odd nicknames. Tony, referencing movies and actors she never heard of, bouncing up and down whenever he saw something that resembled one of his favorite movie scenes. 

Tony, kneeling to talk to children and thinking he was doing a bad job at it. Tony, quickly checking if she was hurt after a sudden firefight. Tony, carrying beers to her apartment. Tony, his gaze not leaving her face. Tony, looking eager to kiss her. 

Tony. Tony. Tony. 

Ziva wakes up without being able to breathe, her stomach burning with hunger. Familiar darkness greets her—there’s a hood over her head. Someone is already pulling her by the arms, making her stand on too-weak legs as the person makes haste to get her moving. 

“You said his name, didn’t you?” urged Saleem. “That time you spoke… It was his name. Italian.”

Dread takes her heartbeat to sky-high. How could Saleem even know about the existence of him? She wonders if she talked in her sleep. She often dreamed of them. But there had been days she didn’t even think there was voice left in her. Ziva’s mouth gets dry. She tries to think. And can’t. He’s already dragging her somewhere, hand digging into the fresh cuts on her arm in order to pull her up. 

The cell door is opened. She can hear the lock getting pried. This has never happened before. 

With her eyes wide open in the darkness, Ziva tries to discern where they’re taking her. This isn’t good. Maybe they’re changing location, perhaps they’re leaving. Which would end every minimal possibility of someone tracking down where they were. Saleem drags her forcibly, an urgency on his steps she’d never seen before. Ziva counts the turns. One left, two rights, straight ahead. 

A second door is opened. 

Saleem throws her on a chair. So, they aren’t moving her. They’re—

“Questions are being asked in town about missing NCIS agents, concerns that U.S. forces might mobilize,” Saleem urges, an edge on his voice. “One of you will tell the identities and locations of all the operatives in the area and the other one will die.”

Then the monster lifts the hood.

And light spills everywhere. 

Familiar grey eyes meet her. A face so engraved inside her chest, for a second, Ziva's certain it is a dream. But then those eyes widen in surprise, his mouth softly hanging open. His skin is as dirty as hers, his lips chapped as well. His chest rises and falls in a breath of relief and Tony settles in that sarcastic smile of his—the one he gets when danger is too close a call. When work may be too challenging for them. Every time there’s a bigger chance they will fail. But the plane is already falling, and they…  they might as well enjoy the ride. 

Her heart stops functioning completely. He’s really there, sitting right in front of her. 

This isn’t a dream.

He came.

He found her.

Then her heart races. For a mere second before stopping again.

Now they’re both going to die. 

“I'll give you a moment to decide who lives,” states Saleem. And marches toward the door, leaving Ziva to be washed by another wave of grief. 

From the corner of her eye, Ziva senses a third person lying on the ground. Her heart breaks, her chest burning wide open. 

It wasn’t enough for her to die alone. Kismet had also brought her dear friends to die with her. 

Ziva’s death was justified. She inflicted inexplicable pain on others. 

Theirs wasn’t. She mourns, not quite believing it was going to end this way. She carries their deaths with her, more lives cut short by her destruction. There’s no place in heaven for the soul such as this. 

“Why are you here?” her voice cracks. 

And so, he tells her. He tells her about the past summer. He tells her about how they found out about Saleem and the mission and his addiction to Caf-Pow. Ziva almost laughs at the irony. But she doesn’t. There is no drop of humor left in her. 

Tony tells her about a crazy escape plan. He had no idea, did he?

Everything was already lost. 

Ziva’s gaze stays on him, tracking his face. She mourns it. 

The possibility of it. 

The possibility of them—now turned to ash.

“Oh, hey, Saleem.” Tony cracks a smile. She can’t believe how relaxed he seems. Ziva already knows nothing good will come from turning a blind eye this time. “What's up, man? What's the commotion?”

Saleem invades the room, clearly affected by whatever it was that was happening outside. From the distance, Ziva can indeed hear shouts—loud enough to reach their cell, along with the piercing song of death—and she briefly wonders what it means. Who’s side is winning? Are the thirty men occupied? What is Tony’s plan? Why does he keep laughing? Are they going to die now? Is this the end? Or are they only moving out?

“We're moving out,” states Saleem. And she shouldn’t feel this relieved. 

“Oh, well, that's good.” Tony nods, lip tight. She wants him to stop talking. Making jokes with someone like Saleem isn’t wise at all. “I was getting kind of tired of this place,” he adds. 

Saleem looks at him. “We're not taking prisoners,” he warns.

“Oh, well, okay, it was nice talking with you.”

And he needs to shut up. Ziva’s dread grows a thousand percent when Saleem advances, bringing a knife to Tony’s throat. She catches his eyes again, a sharp intake of breath accidentally coming from her once his chin is angled up, his hair pulled tightly until the blade is set straight against his throat. 

Saleem lets out a cackle of laughter. 

“I see,” he says. “So, he was the secret to get to you. Special Agent Anthony DiNozzo.” The knife is angled more acutely against Tony’s skin. Now he seems more serious. His eyes leave hers only to land on McGee and then back up again, his jaw locked and set. 

Ziva’s heart thunders. Screams echo outside. The sounds of firing bullets get closer to one another, more desperate. She tries to calculate how much time they have left—

“Tell me about the U.S. forces stationed in my land,” orders Saleem. “Or he dies.”

“He is more important to NCIS,” she blurts out without thinking. Ziva has no idea about this kind of intel. Despair clouds her mind. “Do not kill him,” she urges. “Take me instead.” She pleads, gaze darting quickly between Saleem’s cruel face and Tony’s blank expression. “He is the right hand of Gibbs, the leader of the—”

“Shut up, Ziva,” Tony hisses. 

“There is no use in keeping me alive. Use him as leverage. I can tell you about—”

“Give me the locations of the operatives right now—” Saleem warns, voice rising. He stretches his neck toward the door behind her. The screams are almost reaching them. “—or your special friend dies. Both of them.”

McGee. Dear McGee, who had no fault in this. 

Saleem pulls Tony’s scalp and he winces, the knife digging on the skin of his neck. A single droplet of blood trickles down from where the blade presses him too forcibly. Ziva can’t think clearly. She doesn’t know how she’ll win this fight. Not this time. 

“I do not know of names. But Mossad—”

The screams reach the door. Saleem looks urgently toward the man moving on the ground, trying to crawl toward her. But McGee’s hands and feet are bound. They all are. Tony tries to glance at the small window in the back of the room. He doesn’t succeed, the blade forcing him to stay silent, nervously trying to tell her something with only his eyes. She tries to reason with what he’s trying to say. But fails. Desperate tears reach Ziva’s eyes, stinging down her cheeks, and her heart gets filled with fear. Fear of losing them. Much more than facing the imminent end. 

She somehow knows this is it. It breaks her, cracking her chest open. 

“No—”

Saleem takes the gun out of his belt holster, shooting. 

McGee stops moving. 

“No!” Ziva shouts, thrashing on her chair. Unending pain inundates her. They weren’t meant to come. They weren’t meant—

“Time’s up,” says Saleem, glancing at the door. 

Tony’s eyes soften. His lips tug on one side and he looks almost peaceful. Ziva’s heart stops, silence meeting her ears. The screams get muffled, suddenly distant. The song of death is so silent. He smiles, eyes never leaving hers. Then she sees the truth. In the end, she knows it. 

He was glad he found her. He thought the purpose of him there was complete. 

Tony, just like her, also didn’t mean to live through it. 

A piercing sound cuts the air. A bullet zips from the small window, breaking glass. It hits the concrete wall, leading nowhere. 

Tony stares at it, unmoving. 

Then the blade slashes his throat open, blood gushing out immediately from the wound. His eyes meet hers for a split second before death claims him, terror marking his features. There’s only silence. Darkness. His chin falls to his chest, deep red quickly spreading over his shirt. His body thrashes for a second before it goes languid. 

They’re both dead. There’s only silence. 

The most agonizing scream urges to leave her chest, anguish rising in her throat. Bound to witness the end of everyone she ever loved, Ziva screams and screams, grief taking over her. Like metal scraping against stone, her cry pierces the darkness, venting its terror to never-leaving ghosts. Her family. Her friends—

“Ziva,” someone calls her name. “Ziva.”

Steady hands grab her shoulders, pulling her up to a sitting position. She’s forced to wake up, the scream still hurting inside of her throat. Alarms blare in her mind. She’s drenched in sweat. Nauseated. 

“Ziva,” Tony calls. His voice is distraught. Strained. Alarmed. “Hey-hey-hey. It’s me, Tony.”

A warm yellow light is turned on. The world suddenly becomes clearer. Ziva’s breathing fast, half-staring at a corpse, half-trying to piece together where she is.

“You’re safe now. He’s dead. Saleem is dead,” Tony emphasizes. She wonders whose name she was screaming. How he knows. “You aren’t there anymore.” His eyes frantically search for hers. “You’re safe. Hey, you’re safe. Look at me.”

She blinks. Once. Twice. Her heartbeat is at her throat, threatening to stop at any second. Ziva can still feel the dirt coating every inch of her skin. The sorrow and despair. The walls are made of metal, a cold cell she would never be free from. She’s bound to a chair. McGee is immobile by her feet. Tony is dead. Blood is spreading quickly at the front of his shirt—

Tony searches her eyes, cupping her face. Ziva feels his big hands holding her. 

But Tony is dead. Tony is—

Right there. In front of her. Deeply worried, his brow getting wrinkled. 

But Tony is gone. 

Tony is speaking to her.

“We’re in Paris now.” His voice is steady. Familiar. Safe. “You’re safe. Breathe.” And she trusts him. Instantly, Ziva does what he’s asking her. “That’s it. Breathe.”

A nightmare. 

A chill runs down her spine. Ziva recognizes it now—it is a recurring one. To dream about Somalia wasn’t rare, but that particular nightmare was one of the worst. It changed every now and then. Sometimes, she was the one dying first. In others, Saleem escaped only to haunt her. There were times they never came. When she was never found. But Ziva doesn’t think she’d ever had a nightmare this long, this haunting. It felt so real— 

It wasn’t. A stream of memories comes back to her in a rush. They’re in Paris. On an assignment. Tony’s there with her. He took her to dinner. They drank too much wine. Maybe that’s why there’s a slight discomfort on her left temple, bound to turn into a headache later. Still, Ziva remembers. Paris. They’re in Paris. 

He found her. Saleem was the one dead. None of it was real. 

A wave of gratitude suddenly washes over her. He’s the one who saved her. 

He’s the one.

In so many different ways. 

Once he’s sure she’d come back to herself, Tony releases her face. Ziva doesn’t tell him but she misses the contact immediately. She surveys the room. Tony is fully clothed. With his shirt half-buttoned and his hair a mess. They’re in bed. Warm yellow light bathes the atmosphere, coming from the lampshades at the bedside tables. 

And she loves him. She still loves him. 

“How long has this been happening?” asks Tony, visibly concerned. It appears he already knows the answer. “Is that why you always look tired?”

And maybe it should make Ziva embarrassed. But it only makes her sad. Such a heavy surge of sadness spreads over her chest, it gets almost physically painful. But it is justified. The pain. For Ziva, the pain is justified. 

“Sleeping is difficult,” she confesses. “Sometimes he comes two, three times a night.” 

Tony assesses her. He looks so worried it makes her want to cry. 

“He shouldn’t,” he says, shaking his head. “I didn’t know that.”

“Why would you know—”

“You could’ve told me,” he says. “I would’ve helped.”

I would’ve helped. 

A shaky breath separates them. 

He would’ve helped. 

Couldn’t he see how he’d already saved her?

She looks at him.

Another short breath…

And it spills.

The deep ocean of grief she’s been harboring since the day she was captured simply spills; all at once it becomes too much for her to carry. Ziva catches his stare, so concerned and open, so selfless, and it takes over her. The burden. The intolerable grief. The tragedy. Tony’s eyes track her face, so deeply worried about her well-being. 

And she breaks down, her throat tightening and a lump forming that makes speech impossible. The heaviness inside her chest sinks. Overwhelmed by grief, she feels unable to contain the flood of emotions. And with a loaded sigh, Ziva lets it all go, shoulders shaking and tears streaming down her cheeks, unchecked and relentless. 

“Oh, sweetheart.” Tony’s voice cracks. And he’s pulling her toward him, taking her head and putting it in the crook of his neck. Arms embracing her in a warm safety net. 

Gently—almost too gently—Tony lays them down on the bed, holding her with his whole body. And with her whole body, Ziva chokes, sobs raking over her as she tries to find the surface again and fails. 

“It was darkness.” Her chest heaves with each sob, breath catching in ragged gasps. “Unending darkness,” says Ziva, or tries to. “I did not know when the day began and when it ended. I only knew the darkness. And those… men. Monsters. I had to-I had to—”

Unspeakable. Unspeakable things were done to her, and she had to bury them deep, so deep she isn’t sure now if some of them were fabricated. Ziva sobs, flashes of trauma pulling her heart down, sinking. She recognizes the panic attack as it happens—uncontrolled sobbing, short breaths, and the cutting pain inside her chest—but can do nothing to stop it as she cries in Tony’s arms. He holds her. He holds her tightly throughout the entirety of it. 

She doesn’t know how long it lasts. But after a while, Ziva moves her face out of the comfort of Tony’s chest and is inundated with shame when she sees how the tears have stained the fabric of his shirt. Forcibly, Ziva forces herself to stop sobbing, although it is difficult. She needs to get a grip on herself. This is such a low point - to lose control over the things she can’t change - that she wants him to ignore it. To forget. But now that it already happened, there’s only shame. 

Not only she’s weak but also a complete, irreversible, mess. 

“I mean—” Ziva laughs coldly. Wiping ungoverned tears. “Look at me,” she adds.

Tony shifts. Still, his thumb caresses the crown of her head. His chest rises and falls, slowly. 

“I am,” he says simply. Lips touching her head. “I am looking at you.”

“I am damaged goods.” She stares at nothing, abysmally tired. “Vance was right.”

You're damaged goods. 

“You’re not. I promise you, you aren't.” Another kiss on her head. “I see something different. Completely different.”

“What?” she asks. Another sob.

“A survivor. You’re a survivor, Ziva.”

And the way he says it, with such conviction… The sound of her name in his voice… Ziva almost believes it. She knows part of it is true. She knows there were two sides to that war and the other side was long gone now. She’s part of the one left standing. But still, it’s difficult to accept it. That she had to live through it. 

That, in the end, her ultimate end didn’t come. In the end, the real end, she was forced to keep living.

It was difficult to accept she had to suffer all of that only to keep pushing forward. 

“No one came,” Ziva whispers. Quietly. A confession to herself. “No one came searching for me.” She can still feel the abandonment deep in her bones. “I am but a pawn. A pawn in a game of tyrants. Hatred… so much hatred. Then acceptance. Why would anyone—”

“I must have dialed your number a hundred times,” Tony interjects. 

And the thought washes over her again. 

How he was the one who found her.

Out of everyone who could’ve found her.

Ziva’s heart races. And, all at once, she feels every patch of skin where he is touching her. Her legs cocooned into his. The way her hand is hooked around his biceps, clasping the arm which still holds her close. Her head nudged under his chin, his thumb forever stroking her temple. Lips hovering over the hairline of her widow’s peak.  His chest. The familiar, comforting smell of him. 

Safe. It’s how she feels in Tony’s embrace. 

Completely, entirely safe.

Such a rarity. 

It shouldn’t be this surprising. 

A bit shocked, Ziva looks at him, raising her face to do so. She catches Tony’s eyes. 

So tender. So kind. He’s looking at her so openly, that Ziva has trouble holding his gaze.

“You thought—” she starts. She can’t finish it. 

He thought she was dead. 

She doesn’t ignore how Tony’s eyes get visibly watered. As if remembering it. 

“All your light was gone,” he murmurs. Jaw locking. “It was like you were a shell.”

“You thought I wasn’t there.”

Anymore.

“Yes.”

A thundering beat. 

“Then why did you come?” asks Ziva. 

And his expression changes. Tony sees what she’s trying to do. 

Making him voice it out loud. 

He looks at her. Stare deep into her eyes. And Ziva feels like it passes a lifetime before he speaks again.

“I already told you why.”

He told her he couldn’t live without her.

So, he chose to die for her. 

Ziva had played that phrase a thousand times inside her head and still couldn’t truly grasp how deeply he had meant it. Later, she eventually got to know it was he who had assembled the team. He, who had presented the case. He, who had worked every hour for months—ran against time to convince Vance to plot a mission to where she was being held captive. He had really found her. And, every time she’d asked how the team had managed to do that, there was only one name everybody replied. 

Tony. Tony convinced everyone. 

That there was something wrong. 

Ziva’s so grateful she momentarily thinks she can feel how her heart swells itself for him. It sings for his name, searching for him in the dark. When no one else had believed in her. When no one had come. But him. Tony had gone to the ends of the Earth to get her back. And had done that not even knowing if she was alive. The sheer power of revenging her name had brought him to hell. And he would happily face it even if it meant that’s how it would end. 

Loyalty. With such unbreaking loyalty flowing between them, Ziva feels herself choking again. Tony’s hand hovers toward her face, slowly. As if testing the waters. Her heartbeat bolts. Taking a strand of her hair, he presses the curl between his fingers. Tony stays looking at her, his eyes honest and gentle. Almost too gentle, and Ziva has to fight the urge to look away. 

Shifting, she decides staring at the ceiling is safer. She maneuvers herself until they’re staying side by side, still together but in a way that she can breathe. Ziva lays her head on Tony’s chest. His arm circles around her shoulders, keeping her close. She can feel his heartbeat, slow and steady. 

Tum-tum. Tum-tum. Tum-tum. 

“It didn’t feel right,” he says. 

And she knows it refers to the time she hadn’t contacted them. 

There were more motives than one that had brought her silence but Ziva doesn’t tell him. It doesn’t feel right to share it was because she was selfish. She needed time to reconstruct herself again. After Rivkin, only alone and back to her roots could she remember her purpose. She had left them in Israel for a reason. And look where that had led her. 

Tum-tum. Tum-tum. Tum-tum. 

“I am glad you were there,” Ziva says. There in the dark. 

Tony’s thumb grazes her bare shoulder. 

“It was bigger than me,” he confesses. 

Tears stream down the side of her cheeks. 

“I am haunted by it,” she whispers. And can feel how the memories from Somalia will never truly leave her. 

“You are stronger than them,” he replies. “Than all of them combined. They’re gone. For good. Not one of them is breathing. But you’re still here, aren’t you? Sharing a bed with your handsome coworker?”

A huff of breath followed by a loud ‘Ouch’ comes from Tony as Ziva hits his chest with a slap, finally wiping the falling tears just to roll her eyes at him. She knows what he’s doing. Telling jokes to evoke her laughter. He does that so frequently. She lets him do it anyway. 

“You talk more than hyenas,” she says, trying to recall the right idiom. 

It gets lost in translation. 

“Hyenas talk?” Tony chuckles. “That doesn’t paint me in a good light.”

And, inclining her head to see him better, Ziva catches Tony’s soft smile looking down at her. 

She loves it. With her whole heart. 

Peace swells in her chest as she smiles back. 

“Thank you,” says Ziva. And means it. 

Tum-tum-tum-tum-tum-tum-tum-tum-tum.

Tony’s eyes sparkle. Color blooms on his cheeks. Ziva tracks it, amused to be the cause of it, still after so long. After so much heartbreak and loss. She mentally notes it to tell him that more frequently. Watching him, she sees when he too has trouble meeting her eyes. He looks everywhere before landing on her again and it’s Ziva’s turn to open a small smile at it. At Tony’s so rare loss of words, it feels good to see he’s as easily affected as she. 

“It’s a curse,” Tony says frankly. “I’m your partner.” A beat. He nods, settling for, “I’ll always be there.”

“I do not plan on disappearing again.”

Then he looks at her for the longest time. So long, Ziva starts questioning what he sees—some flaw of her that appears to be so evident in his eyes. Still, Tony doesn’t reply, looking elsewhere. He lands on the skin of her bare shoulder. And, a bit bashful, Ziva’s reminded of how she’s exposed wearing the black lace nightgown. She should’ve planned this better. Tony’s gaze, however, isn’t malicious. It doesn’t travel down her body the way she’s used to but rather stays there, solely focused on that patch of skin. 

“How did you get this scar?” he asks, tapping her shoulder. “It’s new.”

And Ziva’s smile grows soft. He blinks, hoping it can deceive her. She knows, though, exactly what he’s doing. Helping her get over it. Saying it out loud. Taming her demons—rewriting the story in a way that shows her who she really is. In his eyes—a survivor. A scarred one, a messy one. But a survivor nonetheless. 

Ziva catches his smart eyes. And Tony opens up a small smile, knowing that she knows. 

Still, he waits. Daring her to do it. 

And so, Ziva tells him. 

She tells him about the wide cut already mid-fading in her shoulder blade, how it was inflicted, and how she reacted to it. No sorrow graces her heart by recalling how it stung, how it worried her. Ziva focuses on the way she had cleaned it, bending herself to wipe it with a piece of her own clothing. She tells him about the way she had to keep still, patiently waiting for it to heal. No other name is part of her story but hers. And, with Tony giving her his whole attention, Ziva continues. 

She shows him other scars, telling him about her days in captivity. At first, Ziva tries to be light about it. But when he sees this a man who will not turn his eye to the unspeakable, she does not shy away. She tells him everything. She opens up her heart completely, sharing every memory that still haunts her. About their hands on her and the cuts. About the burns, the marks, and the scars they left. The invisible ones. And the words flow freely as if she wasn’t a victim at all. 

Because she wasn’t. This is her story. And no more tears stream down her face as Ziva tells him the story of her scars. 

Tony listens to everything with great patience. Waiting for her. Asking questions only when necessary—every time she hesitates on a particular detail or when silence stretches too long. He nods and hums and points to different places in her body. She shows them all, even the ones hidden. Lifting her clothes to show him her ribs. The cigarette burns on her thighs. Even old ones that had nothing to do with Somalia, but were important to her anyway. 

Ziva’s holding her wrist up to let him see a particular wound when Tony takes her hand, hovering midair. 

“May I…?” he asks, waiting for permission.

And at Ziva’s confused expression, he simply takes her wrist to his lips, softly kissing her scarred skin. 

“Yes,” she lets out in a daze.

And does not believe it. 

In bed, with him lying pressed to her side, Ziva doesn’t believe it. She looks at him, her heart skipping a beat. She doesn’t believe how Tony has stayed. He stayed through all of it—the battle, the loss, the aftermath. He guided her through her trauma and still cared for her, explicitly showing that he cared. Ziva looks at him, heart beating fast to see him still planting kisses on the inner side of her wrist. A thrill runs down her spine to her tiptoes. He must have sensed it too because Tony halts, catching her eye. Ziva has trouble breathing, the air getting thick under his stare. Suddenly, he’s too close. He’s too close, touching her gently and taking the most tender care and… he glances down at her lips, staring at them. Tony’s mouth hangs softly open, a soft breath leaving him. And Ziva feels it without him even having to say it. 

He wants to kiss her.

She wants him to kiss her. 

They stare at each other almost without blinking, both knowing the line made long ago in the sand has already been crossed. There’s a thick cloud of tension, or hunger, or whatever it is, that connects them—Tony’s eyes stay locked at hers without the confinements she knows were of a working environment. Ziva realizes it’s the first time, maybe in years, that they’ve been alone again. In the safety of walls that won’t tell their secrets. And maybe that’s why she doesn’t avert her eyes so quickly. He strips her bare, the question loud and clear. Even in silence. Even if she’s still processing it - the sheer realization he too wishes to have her - Ziva lets the pure sensation of desire show on her face, her expression softening because of it. And Tony mimics it, to her sudden thrill, his eyes getting dark as if she was giving him the final permission needed for him to follow through. 

“I thought you were dead,” he says in the dark. So quiet Ziva almost can’t hear it.

She looks into those eyes. The hunger in them is so evident. The devotion and the hurt. 

This time, she doesn’t fight the urge to touch him. Her hand floats toward his face, hovering above the side of his cheek. With her heart racing, Ziva knows he’s waiting for her to do it—not rushing anything—perhaps with fear that if he would do it, she would be running away. He’s right. She isn’t sure if it’s a good decision. But she lets her hand sink, palm gently touching his cheek and fingers threading into his short hair, and Tony visibly sighs, his eyes fluttering close. He leans toward her, to the hand gently holding his cheek, and breathes in deeply before angling his face a bit more. With eyes still closed, he kisses her palm, lips barely grazing the skin of her hand. 

Ziva’s heart is thundering inside her chest. 

“I am very much alive,” she says.

Tony nods in the dark. He meets her eyes again.

“Good,” he says. 

And he’s leaning in to kiss her, cupping her face to pull her toward him, lips meeting hers in a way that is so tender it feels fragile. 

The moment is so delicate that she doesn’t want to move. So that the rustling of the sheets doesn’t break it, or her heavy breath reminds him there’s indeed hunger under the attraction. Ziva lets herself be kissed, Tony’s lips moving against hers so gently she knows he’s waiting for her permission. He’s stretching the moment out just so that she would be familiar with it. 

And perhaps that’s when Ziva knows he’s good. He’s a good man. Whatever preconception she once had of the way he handled women in the past, it is very different from the way he’s now holding her. With respect, letting her guide the way, letting her enjoy it. And Ziva’s almost certain if she decided to stop right now, Tony would take what he could get. And he would stop. 

But she doesn’t want to stop. 

She lets her tongue invade his mouth without restraints and Tony soundly groans in retribution, hands moving to hold the nape of her neck in place. He kisses her back, tongue sweeping against hers and making her head feel dizzy. It’s always been like this—she always knew he was an expert lover. Tony understands where to touch her to elicit a reaction and Ziva shouldn’t be surprised he hadn’t forgotten all these years. But when he cups her face and leaves his hand there, steadily holding her, it’s very difficult not to feel the sudden thrill. 

Ziva moves so that she’s practically lying on top of him. Tony gathers her unbound hair in his fist, still not allowing the kiss to break. They breathe at the same time. They move in sync. Her whole heart is in it.

It feels intoxicating. It had been too long since she started to wish for this—to be held by him and kissed by him in this manner. She knows Tony is still holding back, not letting his hands roam freely as he once used to, but Ziva understands. She finds it tender, how softly he touches her, but it’s still there. The hunger. The pure, unexplainable chemicals, connecting them in a way that had never happened with anybody else. She had never experienced this.

To be loved in silence, to not have to say a word.

It’s so easy to get lost in him. To want to start moving. Ziva feels his whole body underneath her, solid and real. On top of him, it’s easier to express her needs, and she rocks her hips a bit harder, evoking a sharp draw of breath.

He breaks the kiss.

“Ziva, I…”

Tony’s eyes glaze over her face, pupils dilated. Desire is so clear in them that Ziva’s own hunger grows a thousandfold. She can’t restrain herself, continuing to move against him. His hard-on is evident against her stomach, and Tony hisses, his eyes closing in pleasure. His bottom lip gets sucked between his teeth. And when Ziva doesn’t stop rocking her hips against his, a little crease appears on his brow in concentration. 

She knows he’s still restraining himself. Despite this, Tony breathes deeply, his thumb grazing over the top of her cheek. 

He opens his mouth to speak again, but Ziva knows what he’s going to say. 

And this time, she wants to have that choice. She won’t be voiceless, or weak, or dead. She won’t let others dictate whether her life ended when she was taken away. It took very long for Ziva to feel this way again—truly wanted, truly seen—and she won’t let him back down. Turn away from scars already carved on her skin. 

Real. This is real. This is still her body and she wants this. She wants him. To be touched by him. To feel this way. With every fiber of her being, at this very moment, Ziva simply wants to feel that it is real. 

She wants to feel loved again. 

“Shh.” She kisses him, trying to shut down those thoughts. 

And for a moment, Tony gets lost in her again. Their mouths connect and his hands drift from her hair to the angle of her waist. It feels so good. His palms are large and firm and while they hold her in place, Tony’s thumbs press over her stomach. Open-mouthed, Ziva lets out a sigh. Moving upward against him, she finally finds the position which will grant both of them pleasure. Tilting her hips, her eyelids drop. And when she meets Tony, he’s already halfway gone—eyes closed and lower lip sucked softly between his teeth.

She kisses him, trailing down his face; from the corner of his mouth to his jaw. Already breathing harder due to the friction, Ziva takes his chin in her hand and eases access to his neck, tilting his face. Absent-mindedly, Tony’s hands drift south, landing on those hips. Her tongue wets his pulse before she sucks it, and his smell invades her nostrils. Wood-scented cologne and fragrant soap. Strong hands squeeze her hips as she dances on top of him and—as he quickly grows hard underneath her—it’s fairly easy to start voicing her hunger.

Tony stops immediately, scaring her. 

“No.” He shakes his head, vehemently. Ziva tries to find what’s wrong but he keeps his eyes shut. “You know where this is heading.”

Disappointment swiftly sends a cold bucket of ice straight to her heart but Ziva tracks his face, trying to see why Tony had to stop. His body still reacts to her. Vividly. She can feel him rock hard against her center, at times throbbing underneath her, and she tests him by moving very slightly. Nearly nothing. A slow slide of their connecting hips. And almost instantly, Tony reacts, meeting her eyes. 

Only then does Ziva understand. 

He doesn’t want to hurt her. 

He doesn’t want to be the subject that inflicts her any pain. Ziva knows that the traumatic events she had experienced in Somalia are now a permanent part of her memory but they are yet just another thing she cannot change.  There’s nothing to be done about it but live with them. Continue to live despite them—and that perhaps is the true definition of what would make her who she is. 

A survivor. 

“I want this, Tony.” She looks deep into those eyes. Raw emotion shows in them. “You said you would help. Then help. I-I want to heal. I want to forget. I want you.”

Still, he doesn't believe her. Tony takes another beat to even comply, a frown marking his features. 

“Are you sure? We can stop if  you—”

“I am sure. I trust you.”

She sees directly when the words hit him, peace settling between them. 

And Tony only nods slightly before he cups her face again, kissing her lips. 

His tongue sweeps against her mouth and Ziva’s thrilled when he takes the reins of the situation. Finding her hips again, Tony’s hands travel down her body until she feels them digging into her skin, breaths coming short as she rocks them against his. She bites his lower lip and he grunts, clearly affected by what she’s doing. Confidently, Ziva tilts his chin again to gain access to his jaw but just as she’s taking the lobe of his ear between her teeth, Tony suddenly raises his torso, taking her with him. 

And, on his lap, legs circling his back, Ziva feels like every cell of her body is coming alive at the same time.

His arms embrace her and a hand finds the nape of her neck. Desire stirs in her like wildfire within her as Tony buries his face on her neck, sucking and biting as he takes advantage of his eye level in this position. Ziva’s eyes fall closed as he kisses her, lips branding her collarbone and then her throat, nibbling skin as he teases her to extremes. Unconsciously, Ziva still rocks her hips on top of him and it’s not long until Tony is holding her tightly again, lost in the sensation of them as close as they could be. 

Carefully, with much more care than necessary, his fingertips trail the skin of her exposed thighs and Ziva feels herself getting quickly turned on, desire easily clouding her vision. Tony’s hands disappear under the fabric of her nightgown and she lays her forehead against his, mumbling the affirmations continuously. 

I want it. I want you.

In a sweeping move, Tony raises her arms over her head and takes the piece of clothing off, which is discarded shamefully fast. It doesn’t take a second for his mouth to find her skin again, branding the swell of her breast as his. A hand squeezes her waist while he takes his time, making her grow in need of friction as he claims her just with his touch. Ziva’s fingers thread into Tony’s short hair and she lets out a huff of breath, closing her eyes at the sheer sensation of him. 

Impatient, Ziva forces him to take off his shirt quickly and Tony only stops kissing her to do so, not wasting a second before returning to the job in her breast again, kneading the other. His need to touch her is evident and she surprises herself by letting out a chuckle at his unrelenting devotion. Marvled by the sound, Tony halts merely to track her expression, opening up a thousand-watt smile when he sees that Ziva is laughing. 

The laughter is cut short through as he kisses her, hungrily. Mind-dizzyingly hungry, sucking her lips between his teeth and large hands digging into the curves of her ass. Ziva lets out a moan of approval as Tony takes the weight of her body in one of his arms and twists them, making her lay her back on the bed. She knows he’s a strong man. It’s exciting anyway to be the one being thrown for a change. And, as Tony’s mouth trails down her torso with kisses, Ziva’s thrilled the butterflies inside her chest were finally brave enough to leave the cage. 

A soft breath escapes her as Tony disappears between her legs. Ziva catches his gaze as he spreads them for better access but soon her eyes are fluttering close again when he takes one of her bare feet in his hand and kisses the inner side of her ankle—as if it was nothing. Ziva’s chest heaves at it, mouth hanging open at the sensation of her ankles on his lips. Slowly, soft kisses are planted everywhere. Her mind gets dizzy with desire. 

Growing impatient, she gestures for him to get close only to hook him by the neck and kiss him deeply—and it’s Tony’s time to laugh out loud, amused by the sudden change of plans. He lets her enjoy it, though, and kisses her back—perhaps the best kiss she ever had. His hands find hers in the dark and their fingers intertwine, threading together. She can feel his whole body pressed against hers and is thrilled to see how much he wants her too. Ziva wants him completely. 

After a while, though, Tony doesn’t let her dissuade him. He returns to the spot between her thighs, his mouth trailing wet kisses from the center of her chest to her belly button. Swiftly, his lips suck the spot where her thigh meets her hips, only for his tongue to soothe it a moment later. Ziva’s already arching her back with anticipation when he chuckles again, stretching the teasing. 

He sucks the inner skin of her thighs, scars disappearing with the continuous touch of his lips. Tony had always been an expert in making her lose my mind over something as simple as kissing, but as he plants a soft one just over the lacy fabric of her center, Ziva’s sure the fingers of his hand get hurt by how tightly she squeezes them. A blink and a smug smile and he’s taking it off, flimsy panties being dragged off her legs to disappear into the front pocket of his pants. Ziva catches as he raises an eyebrow, challenging her to fight him. But she does what’s becoming so frequent between them—she lets him do it anyway. 

One moment of distraction and Tony is already advancing. 

A long, slow sweep of his flat tongue and she’s thrashing in his grip, one arm skillfully keeping her down as he hooks it over her pelvis. Ziva’s fingers thread through his hair, pulling it, while the other hand squeezes his own, letting him know exactly what she’s feeling as Tony sucks the bundle of nerves. Right before his tongue quickly acts over them again. Nose rubbing against her clit, he takes his time exploring it, the slurping and squelching noises mixing with her own rapid breaths. He's good, knows what to do, where to look and lick. 

He always did. It feels as good as Ziva remembers. She already knows that the ghost touch of his hands grabbing her hips will turn into a memory later. 

It’s easy to get lost in it, her head spinning. It’s too hot and her lungs are protesting. The tension in her belly is like a burning thing, growing and expanding, filling her out like she wishes he would fill her out. A hand stretches the back of her thigh toward her torso and Ziva lets out a heavy breath as Tony groans into her, the sound vibrating through her clenching core. His hands move, one big palm pressed to her stomach, forcing her down on her back, while the other slips between her legs.

It’s so easy to stop thinking, her mind turning blank amidst the deep pool of desire. She already knew it would come to this—although they so often danced around it, their blood and skin understood. Their bodies screamed at each other while they were silent, strong chemicals pulling them together and inexplicable connection turning into an addiction. Ziva is addicted to it. The softness of his touch, the roughness, and the skill. She wants to get lost in it. She wants to forget, and let it all go. 

He nibbles over her clit, forever teasing her, while his fingers slide through her slick center before they take a dip into her heat, pungling deep two at once. Gasping out loud at the sensation, it gets hard to breathe as he pushes in and out, stretching, massaging, and curling against that sweet spot. Ziva arches her back, shoulders pressing into the mattress, and cries out, thighs trembling around his shoulders, her own shaking hand gripping at his wrist, nails sinking into his skin before he slips his long fingers between hers, holding her hand, heavy on her stomach. 

Tony pumps his other digits into her, licks her clit, and it takes little more for the tension to explode within her. Their joined hands hold her down when she convulses, jerks her hips against his face and fingers, shivering under the streaming moonlight. He stretches it, breathing out her name and, in wonder, watches as Ziva convulses, moans escaping into oblivion. 

Licking every drop with broad strokes of his tongue, Tony’s fingers move slower, bringing her down gently before they retreat. Ziva’s red in the face, panting, trying to avoid those hungry eyes. She meets them anyway. And as his hands find her waist again when he straightens up, towering over her, she can do nothing but show him in a daze how her body reacts to it. His touch. Chest heaving and still panting, Ziva calls for him, satisfied, and Tony answers, meeting her lips again and letting her taste the arousal he provoked. 

Wanting him to feel it too, Ziva’s hand tentatively travels down his body, landing on the growing bulge in his pants. She loves his chest hair - there’s something really masculine to it, somehow - but Ziva is a much bigger fan of the waistline hair. Solid muscle, hidden underneath everywhere she squeezes. Swiftly, Tony leaves her in the bed, still wanting, still alive, to take off the rest of his clothes while Ziva gets to watch the spectacle. Unabashedly, she ogles his body, wanting to feel his whole weight pressing against her. The entirety of him. 

Tony cuts the condom wrapper with his teeth while she watches it all in wonder. The tingling sensation is still very present in the depths of her core, throbbing, tantalizing. Her confidence is sky-high as Tony practically eats her with his eyes, traveling up and down her naked body as if she were a real temptress. Ziva’s heart thunders. He does his job and leans over her, face already branding down her neck again with kisses. He’s gentle, lips soft and longing as it touches her skin. Her cheeks, her face, her collarbone. Tony says her name, whispering it, like a prayer, and she blushes, unprepared for such vulnerability. Meeting her eyes, he asks the question again—in silence, with profound respect. Ziva nods, the intimacy between them suddenly overwhelming. Retaking his neck, she gently pulls him toward her, meeting his lips. And it feels right. To be there, with him, in a delicate place no one can touch. Where no one can bother them, kissing deeply and breathing ragged. The greatest thing.

To love and be loved in return. 

The crown of his cock nudges her entrance and she gasps only lightly before he pushes in, slowly sinking into her. It fills her tightly, and Ziva’s mouth hangs open at the sensation of Tony driving himself into her, the weight of his whole body hugging her on all sides, their hips connecting and breaths coming short, completely in sync. He takes both of her hands into his, pulling them over their heads, and Ziva moans inside his mouth, all of her senses acutely turned on. With their fingers intertwined, he thrusts into her at a slow pace and her breath hitches, lost in the sensation of him stretching her so tauntly. He pulls and pushes in and out, so slowly it makes Ziva leave his grip only to scratch down his back, fingernails digging into his skin at the thrill of it. Open-mouthed, his tongue sweeps against the roof of her mouth and she moans out his name, loud and clear, a huff of breath between her lips. In the dimly lit room, it’s difficult not to feel intoxicated. Tony’s musk makes her head spin and the way he kisses her… Ziva simply wants to eat him alive. 

He's heavy on top of her, body sweating, hot, his grunts escaping as frequently as his relentless thrusts. Her cunt feels raw, muscles contracting, tight and tense, and he still plunges in and out with ease, the wet squelching sounds mixing with his heavy panting and her muffled whimpers. Tony retreats only to give her a weak smile, a gesture that makes Ziva feel even hotter, and leans in, folding his body over hers again, caging it. Ziva moans as he captures her mouth for another searing kiss, tongue slipping between her lips, tasting every inch of her. And soon she's barely capable of mirroring his motions, reduced to a mewling mess beneath him. 

Tony sinks slowly and his hips keep their steady rhythm, pounding leisurely and deep. He groans into her mouth as she clenches around him, her stomach tight and tense, that coil within ready to burst. 

“Come with me,” Tony breathes into her, his gaze intense as he presses his forehead to hers. 

And Ziva's not in control, can't even reply, but his words are enough to push her over the edge. She stiffens beneath him, crying out against his lips, fingers clawing at the sheets as her thighs twitch, and feet digging into his back. Her eyes roll back, her breath hitches, and the tension explodes into bright lights dancing behind her eyelids as her body convulses beneath him. Tony loves her through her orgasm, prolongs it until he starts throbbing inside her, and that one final push nestles him deep within, twitching against her folds, and reaches nirvana as well.

Collapsing on top of her, face buried in the crook of her neck while her toes curl up, he empties himself inside her, every spasm of his cock accompanied by a low growl against her pulse. The warmth is soothing, his weight on her comforting, and she feels herself drifting back to reality, a soft smile on her trembling lips.

Repeatedly, Tony kisses her, deeply, slowing down his thrusts. He huffs in the shell of her ear, whispering compliments she thinks she never heard about herself. How strong she was, how beautiful. Ziva is inundated with a wave of emotion, receiving the words and giving him back, kissing him, showing him how. 

When Tony rests his forehead against hers, Ziva’s afraid the spell will be broken. That he’ll realize what they did and stop, regretting it. But she doesn’t. And he stays, their bodies cooling down. It is different this time. She knows Paris would change them.

He plants a kiss on the apple of her cheek and excuses himself to clean up, slipping out of her gently as he pads toward the bathroom, turning the light on and giving her a chance to breathe. Ziva’s gaze lands on the window again, the starry sky outside so clear without any clouds. The perfect night, so sweet and wonderful. Her eyelids feel heavy with comfortable satisfaction, the tiredness of such a long day weighing down on her again.  

She’s almost drifting off when Tony reappears, a glass full of water on one hand and the other stuck out, silently asking her to sit. She accepts it, looking over to him with hooded eyes, and takes a gulp, grateful for such care after the constant effort of voicing her need. Ziva’s hand brushes his shoulder as she rises from the bed, a kiss stolen on the top of her head as she takes her turn to use the bathroom. 

When she returns, the lampshade is off. Comforting darkness spreads across the room and she can see Tony’s silhouette sitting on the mattress as he waits for her to come back. Still real. Still there. 

Carefully, Ziva takes the steps toward him, a new feeling settling in the depths of her chest. Her hand meets his cheek, he kisses her palm, head falling to rest onto the plain of her stomach. Tony kisses her, devotion clear as he wraps an arm around her waist and gently pulls her toward him. 

Sheets rustle until they’re both under them, legs twisting together as Tony spoons her, a strong arm embracing Ziva’s waist and holding her close, safe. His face buries itself in the crook of her neck, kissing her pulse, nibbling her earlobe. Ziva’s arm rests over his, pushing herself tighter to his embrace, bathing in comfort while she still can. 

In silence, she lets her eyes close, feeling so warm. So comfortable. Tony’s breath huffs in her ear, a slow, rhythmic, natural tranquilizer. His chest is pressed on her back and Ziva’s almost falling asleep when he whispers again, a heavy sigh indicating his emotions. 

“I’m sorry,” Tony says. “It broke me. Seeing you like that—thinking you were gone… I…” He trails off. “I’m so sorry, love. I—”

And her heart races. Predicting it. Feeling it in her bones.

“I love you, Ziva.” 

And the way he said her name, in the darkness of the room, gave her no further doubt. This time, she couldn’t deny it wasn’t directed at her. 

Walls laid bare. Rules stripped down, the truth finally hanging in the air between them. 

Ziva’s still struggling to reply when Tony speaks again. 

“I’ve known it for a while now. I can’t help it.”

And she knows that, too. It’s been clear for both of them, ever since they returned from Somalia. 

“I know that,” she replies. 

“Good,” Tony settles. 

And, speechless, her heart racing like never before, she merely leans over him and kisses his cheek. He kisses her face back, softly, sweetly, filled with love and care.

And when Ziva drifts off to sleep, entirely in peace in Tony’s arms, she’s uncertain if she says it back.

But she’s sure he knows it too.

Blinking, Ziva awakes in a bubble of warmth, smooth sheets rumpled around her and soft light streaming from the open window. It is morning, and the sun is coming through. She’s trying to place where she is when the surface where her face is pressing down moves, and she realizes she’s lying on Tony’s chest. The knowledge of it sends alarms to her mind, but then no more than two seconds later, a stream of memories washes over her. Hands, loving in the dark. His mouth, skilfully going down on her. Fingers intertwined and lingering bliss. 

Heat blooms in her cheeks, blushing heavily. Ziva carefully rises herself from his chest, blinking out the sleepiness of her features as she catches Tony’s eye. He’s already smiling, that infuriatingly lopsided grin of his. 

“For someone who can’t sleep, you sure snore like a bulldog.” 

His eyes sparkle, tracking her face. His chest is bare but he’s wearing his boxers. His hair is disheveled, with spiky patches sticking out everywhere. And there’s a stubble, a 5 o’clock shadow, which she’d always found so attractive on him. Under the covers, Ziva notices she’s still naked, though not entirely laying over him, sheets separating them. 

Tony raises an eyebrow, huffing amused.

And Ziva realizes no more nightmares graced her sleep last night. 

“What time is it?” she asks, taking the covers up when she sits. Glancing at the clock on the bedside table, Ziva almost jumps out of bed, the hour way too late for them not to be in a car, heading to get their witness right now. 

“Tony. We need to go. Now. The flight will be leaving in—”

“Shh, relax.” He speaks slower, “There’s another flight in the afternoon. I’ve already made all the arrangements and let Probie know. Well, not that it was me.”

He… He changed the flight? For…

For them?

“Nora is still at work, and I have live surveillance footage of her workspace,” he continues. “Unfortunately for Probie back in DC, Vance won’t be bought so easily. SecNav ordered us to be there this evening. Our original flight would be leaving in… Well, twenty minutes. Still leaving, by the way. Only three people short. Oh, well, let McGoo figure it out, I’m sure he can manage it.” Then changes the subject, “Why don’t you rest for more fifteen minutes? Then, we can have some breakfast in the café around the corner. Sounds good?” 

Tony had altered their flight. For them to not have to rush, for her to sleep peacefully. After such a restless night - in all kinds of ways - he had secretly put them on the following flight back to Washington, managed to secure their witness, and planned where they would eat. All of that while she was asleep. 

Ziva looks at him, still feeling a bit dazed. She couldn’t believe in his level of care, going so frequently unnoticed by everyone. But she did. She noticed it—how the glass on her bedside table was full of water again. And how her gun and badge are neatly placed on the sofa across the room, right next to his. 

In the morning light, she’s certain this had changed them in more ways than one. The secrets, whispered into the security of those hotel walls, the teasing and the care. His kisses, the ghost touch of them still branding her body. The wine, bottle empty in the corner of the room. The views, the jokes, and moonlit Paris. 

“Oh, there are still some sights I wanted to see. Do you know they rent scooters in the store across the street? If we can squeeze it, maybe there’s enough time to—”

And she needs to say it. The urge to voice her guilt is eating her alive, bubbling inside her gut. Before it is too late, before they have to leave this magical bubble they created inside those four walls. 

About her nightmares. About the trauma, blurted out in the dark. About the time he should be sleeping and now he can’t have back, the slight dark circles under his eyes telling her so. Ziva knows it was right to say it out loud. For her to hear it too, for him to know. But perhaps keeping him awake right before such an important assignment because of her haunting past wasn’t the correct way to do it. 

Nightmares aside, he didn’t deserve to carry her burden as well. 

“Tony. I am sorry about—”

But he stops her immediately, a hand laying on top of her thigh, over the covers. 

“Hey,” says Tony, shaking his head. “Don’t worry about that. You know what they say.” 

Ziva frowns. “That you can sleep during the flight? But we will be guarding a witness—”

Ziva trails off at the way he’s looking at her, eyes softening and with a small smile. The words die in her throat, regret crumbling and being eaten by the still-fluttering butterflies. Tony watches her, seeing something she will never know, then pulls her toward him, arms embracing her again. And Ziva lets her head lay on top of his bare chest, following the slow, rhythmic movements of his breathing. She can hear his heart, feel his warmth, and breathe in his scent, so infinitely comfortable in his embrace. 

“No, chérie,” says Tony in an absolutely perfect French accent. And she realizes way too late it had all been a ruse. Planting a kiss on her head, he explains, “Casablanca. Paris.” 

And she remembers.

And, despite not knowing if they'll later deny it or finally be brave enough to face it when they return back to Washington, it warms Ziva's heart just the same.

That now they, too, will always have Paris.