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Sometimes, he dreams about that night. He remembers, vividly, how it had all made sense then, with her, in his arms. How it had just fit, perfectly.
But that was then, and then was two weeks ago, and things always look different in the pale morning sun, y'know.
*** *** ***
He is so deeply lost in thought that he almost jumps out of his skin when she rushes past him, then stops mid-step and leans over his shoulder with her hand coming to rest on his back. His own hand jerks his mouse up to click the instant message window shut before he swivels his chair around to block her view.
That makes her not exactly frown, but it gets her curious, and she tries to catch a glimpse at his monitor in earnest now. "What, Tony? What is it you are up to?"
He moves with her to the side while her chin goes up and her expression turns all investigatory. "I don't know, Zee-vah. What are you up to?"
She leans back against the folder rack, crosses her arms in front of her chest and stares at him, eyes narrowing. "What do you mean?"
He returns her stare, face kept carefully blank while just his eyebrow moves up. "Fifth time you just happened to touch me accidentally like that. Sixth, if you count the elevator stumbling."
She pales slightly at his words, and for once, her poker face has a hard time coming up. "I... had not noticed that," she replies, and he isn't quite sure if that is a lie of if she really has no idea how close she's been to him all day. "I did not mean to..."
Big, fat lie, this one. She meant to, oh yes. And that makes him narrow his eyes now and stare at her curiously until she actually, truly blushes.
His mouth wants to fall open but before he can blurt out what might turn into a bad pun, his instant messenger pings at his back, and he freezes. Her eyes move, and he knows that the chat window has reopened and she's reading... He turns, grabbing the mouse frantically, but she moves faster and presses his hand down to the desk with her right, her left going to his shoulder and keeping him in the chair.
she's worse at talking than my old man, and that says something
Thank God only his last line to his buddy is visible. Bad enough, but could be much worse.
And then he reads Mark's response.
that emotionally retarded? *laughs* might need to just throw her over your shoulder and drag her home then
He feels her grip on his shoulder tighten. Otherwise, she doesn't move, isn't even looking at him, just keeps staring at the blinking message. He breathes out slowly. Feels her hand pressing down on his, spreading heat. Can't think of anything to say.
And just like that, she pushes him aside, leans forward and grabs the keyboard, and he is too stunned to stop her.
Her spelling is impeccable. Still, his brain refuses to make sense of what she types at first.
The emotional retard was actually just about to ask Tony if he wants to spend the evening with her, but might reconsider now.
She hits the send button and steps back, and when he turns his head to look at her, her face is tense and still fixed on the screen, not meeting his eyes.
"Seriously?" he asks, and she just nods sharply, once. His pulse is a big lump in his throat then, heartbeat pattering along with the last of the office noise. He can't stop staring at her.
Ping.
now you're shitting me
Tony looks over his shoulder, reads. Breathes out, then types a fast response.
gotta go, mate, sorry
He logs off fast and powers down the computer, and when he gets to his feet, he almost bumps into Ziva, who is still right behind him and still not looking at him. His hand moves to her back, and it's almost too easy to spring her back into motion with a simple touch. "C'mon." She nods and gets her stuff from her desk.
As the elevator doors close, the back of his hand brushes hers.
*** *** ***
The ride to her apartment is quiet, and every now and then he feels her watching him, and that's when he has to concentrate hard on keeping his eyes on the road. He is tempted to reach for her a few times, but the way she looks at him whenever she actually meets his eyes makes him tighten his grip on the steering wheel instead. A bit like a cornered animal.
He's not sure if she's panicking or having second thoughts, but there is something going on in her head that he doesn't understand yet, and it makes him grind his teeth. He doesn't even know why they're going to her place, but he's not about to question it and risk having her bolt on him now.
*** *** ***
She jumps when he closes the door, and he almost apologizes. Then he remembers that he is, in theory, wanted here and that softness is not always the best approach with her, and so he takes off his coat and walks up to her.
"What now?" he asks.
She looks up at him without really meeting his eyes this time, her gaze flicking left and right, and he knows by now that this is how she looks when she wants to say things she can't get over her lips. And hell, yeah, he understands that all too well, been there, done that. But this time, it's driving him nuts.
"Ziva," he snaps, and she jumps again, really looking at him now. "Why. Am. I. Here?"
Her eyes widen, and her lips part, but nothing happens, and he starts moving then, coming up to her until he's in her face and ready to grab her by the shoulders and shake some sense into her.
"I am not used to this, Tony," she presses out through gritted teeth then, and he sees the muscles in her arms jump as she clenches her hands into fists and tries to stand her ground without accidentally hurting him.
"Used to what?" He can't help it, he has to move closer still, his chest almost touching hers. Close enough to kiss her now. His voice is hard, and he has no idea where this is going. He just knows he has to see it to the end or it will haunt them. "Used to having someone around?"
Her eyes narrow. "To wanting someone around," she hisses into his face, and then she does push him hard.
It makes him stumble back against the couch, and he sees the shock on her face, but isn't sure it's there because of what she said or what she did. His shoulder stings where she has hit him.
"Not even with Michael?" he hears himself ask harshly, and that takes all the tension out of her stance as if he had snapped his fingers. Her face is blank for a moment, and he is close to apologizing for the second time this evening when he realizes that she is actually thinking about his question.
"There was... never a need for wanting him around," she finally says, very softly. "He... he just was."
He stares at her until a soft shudder runs through her, like she's snapping out of her reverie. And when he sees that she realizes what she has just said, it takes all his willpower to keep still and give her the space she needs. His hands itch, and he knows that if he looks at her much longer, wide open and shaken like that, he'll do something utterly sentimental and stupid, and that might blow it all to smithereens. So he grabs his coat and tries to get out of her apartment before she pulls herself together.
She opens her mouth, wants to say something, but he only shakes his head and raises a hand to silence her. He can't even stop to tell her he only needs some fresh air to stop his head from spinning. He hopes she knows him well enough to wait.
*** *** ***
When he knocks at her door almost an hour later, he's not sure how she'll react. He's not even sure she'll open the door for him, so yes, it is a nice surprise when she does. Even nicer when her eyes light up when she sees him leaning in her door frame.
"Good. You're still awake," he says and can't help but smile at her. Happy and slightly surprised, because it feels strangely good to just look at her. "Wasn't sure you'd stay up for me."
"I... you left your backpack, so I assumed..." Her voice trails off, and there is the damn hesitation again that should have no place in her behavior, ever.
Still leaning in the door frame, he raises both hands, presenting his offerings in the form of Chinese takeout extraordinaire and a rental DVD. "Dinner and a movie?" he asks, and that makes her smile. Still not moving back to let him in though, so he puts on his best Prince Charming expression and lowers his voice seductively. "C'mon, Ziva... Rock Hudson, Doris Day, 1959? One of the all-time movie romances...? How could you possibly resist that...?"
Her smile deepens, and when she meets his eyes this time, she finally does look at him, not some ghost of Christmas past. "You do remember that I do not own a TV, yes, Tony?"
"Damn," he says, and no, he actually hasn't thought about that. "That does put a damper on my plans, yes..."
"Mhm, yes," she says, and she laughs now, low, conspiratorial, and with just a hint of sexy while she leans against her side of the door frame, looking up at him. "I do have booze, though."
He grins and shoves the takeout bag at her. "Lead the way, m'lady."
*** *** ***
They end up making popcorn anyway (salted, so it won't clash too badly with the Tequila), and he starts retelling the movie like one would read a bedtime story, because he has certainly seen it often enough to run through it line by line.
His Doris Day impression makes her laugh out loud, even brings back that little snort that he hasn't heard in such a long time. She laughs even harder when the boy named Tony tries to get into Doris' pants, and Tony the storyteller does pout then, but can't even blame her for that. She doesn't believe a single word about Rock Hudson's character, though, because nobody can be that much of a DiNozzo, even in the movies. He has to admit she does have a point there. Maybe he has just seen that movie once too often in his youth.
They do Tequila shots in-between, and maybe it's not the brightest idea to get her drunk, but it feels right and it keeps both of them entertained and relaxed and from thinking too hard for a change.
*** *** ***
"So how come you didn't trust me?" he asks her later, somewhere around two thirds through the bottle. Sees her pretty face tighten up, and that makes him regret he has spoken aloud immediately. Wishes that he could just put the whole issue to rest and never waste a thought on it again. And yet, when she hesitates, he can't help it, he has to push it just that one notch further, like he always has to. "Didn't? Or don't?"
"Didn't." She doesn't pause to think at all. At least that much she is sure about. "The way I grew up, it teaches people to..." Now she does hesitate, searches for the right words and finally settles for knocking back her shot glass and refilling it.
"Not trust?"
"To base trust on more than your gut. To keep your distance and observe logically, even when you are personally involved."
"Heck of a lot of good that ever did for you."
"I tried," she says.
"And, what? I didn't give you enough logical reasons to trust me?"
Her head whips around, and she looks at him wide-eyed, which makes him realize that if he weren't that drunk already, that would have hurt. Thank God all he can muster up right now is mild curiosity.
"I grew up with Ari. I also grew up with Michael around," she finally answers, avoiding his eyes now and playing with the glass in her hands instead. "I thought I knew <i>them</i>, and I did not. And... I only knew you such a short time..."
Her voice trails off, and something nasty makes him finish her sentence.
"So you couldn't trust me, of course." And there it is, finally, the pain that eats him up sometimes late at night. He breathes out slowly and tries not to break something.
"I thought I could not, yes," she agrees, looking at him now with her eyes wide and panicked and confused. "And I thought it was my heart that was at fault for wanting to."
His mind stumbles over her words, and he can't think of something to say. Because put like that, it does sound a bit like love.
He's quiet for some time, and she doesn't seem too eager to continue the conversation, too. Eventually, he puts a hand to her neck and just acts, which has always worked best for him anyway, and she lets him draw her over to his side of the couch. He kisses her, almost chaste, just pressing his mouth to hers until she takes a deep breath, leans against him and wraps one arm around his body.
"Sometimes it is hard to learn new things," she murmurs into his shirt. Her speech is really slurred now, and he isn't sure if she's just drunk or has trouble breathing with her face pressed into the curve of his neck. "But by now I have learned that you - I mean, all of you. Team Gibbs. That you may have been the only people in my whole life without their own agenda towards me."
"Not true," he whispers back after a while and presses his lips to her hairline. He has to crack a joke, he can't help it, because if he doesn't, it will hurt. "Your panties? Have always been one hell of an agenda for me."
And she laughs shakily and raises her head to kiss him again, the sharp pang of liquor on her breath. It's short, and it's messy, and it doesn't lead anywhere because there's too much going on right now, too much said and even more left unsaid. But while it lasts, he can taste the salt of tears on her lips.
*** *** ***
He feels her jerk in his arms, and that wakes him instantly.
"Sshh," he whispers and holds her tight, and she shudders and raises her head to look at him. He brushes her hair out of her face. Feels her pulse hammer against his fingertips. "Bad kind of dream?"
"The only kind," she agrees and moves as if she wants to get up.
He keeps his arm around her, though. Barely sees her in the darkness of the early morning hours, but still knows how she looks right now, with her hair all messed up and her shirt all rumpled from falling asleep on the couch with him.
"Go back to sleep," he murmurs, his hand stroking her cheek, the other slipping under her shirt now and stroking her back in a weirdly familiar way, seeking the comfort of skin on skin. "We have at least two hours before we need to be presentable."
And I'm here to watch over you.
She hesitates for long seconds, looks at him with an odd expression on her face. And then she complies and settles back against his chest. It takes only a few minutes until he feels her breathing relax. She is asleep again, one arm wrapped around his chest, one leg entwined with his.
And he watches her.
*** *** ***