Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

2015

The alley was too quiet. 

Tony could feel it in his gut. He’d hoped for a solid case his first time back on US soil in years, a way to cement himself as the new Special Agent In Charge. A clean win to remind anyone who still remembered who he’d been and those who doubted him as the new face in the office that he was as good as ever. Even if the 5 years stationed in Naples had seen him return with a few extra pounds from the pizza and an enviable tan. 

But this - shadows stretched to uncanny proportions, the unseasonable prickle of humidity in the air, the eerie silence broken only by the faintly buzzing street lights - this was not what he had in mind. The whole place felt like someone was holding their breath, and he didn’t like it one bit. He liked it even less when he realised he was the one not breathing. 

Whatever was about to go down was big, but he could already tell it would not be in the way he hoped. 

His hand hovered over his Sig, waiting for movement. Their guy was in that warehouse, he was sure of it. Wanted in three countries and with a rap sheet as long as Tony’s arm, he’d evaded arrest on six other occasions. But not this time; all they had to do now was bring him in. Textbook case. 

He rubbed the back of his skull, trying to ignore the tingle there, the warning that something else was coming too. He didn’t need that, only to complete the task. 

Tony exhaled hard. This was his job, and this was what he was good at. He was here to arrest an internationally wanted criminal, not to hunt for ghosts of his past lurking in industrial DC. 

His comms crackled as, one by one, his team announced they held their entry points, waiting for his call. External surveillance confirmed they had the place covered. He tested the door, locked. He rolled his eyes, it figured he wouldn’t get away without a bruise or two. 

One last inhale and go. 

He slammed his shoulder into the door. The lock gave way, and his gun came up, sweeping left, right. Clear . Through the office into the main warehouse. Another sweep. Clear again. He waited for his team in the other rooms to confirm the same and join him. The place was silent, any movement would be heard. If the guy was upstairs, there was no way he was getting down without being found now. 

There was a new crash, the door on the opposite wall splintering, the hinge swinging wide.

He whipped around, his weapon raised, aiming at the new figure in the doorway - not his team. The barrel of their gun glinted dully in the yellowish light filtered through the dusty windows as it snapped up and locked onto him. 

“Drop your weapon!” they ordered. A female voice, he realised, not his target in disguise. 

“NCIS!” he barked back. “You first.” 

Still hidden in the shadows on the other side of the room, he couldn’t make out anything more of the intruder than the heavy black tactical gear and unwavering stance. “FBI,” she countered. “Put the gun down.” 

“Boss, there’s FBI here.” His earpiece came to life again, his senior agent. Her voice was strained. It sounded like she’d skipped the standoff and gone straight to physically subduing. 

He kept his gun trained on the newcomer as he spoke. “Great timing, Hanson,” he growled into the mic. “Yeah, I know. Stand down. Find Coop and Fletcher and get your asses in here.” 

“That was the first smart thing you have said.” They edged a step closer, locked in a stalemate. Neither gun would be lowered while the other was still pointed at them “Now, I am not asking you. Put the weapon down.” 

Something in the firm, commanding tone rang a bell for Tony, but he pushed it down. Criminals, not ghosts, he reminded himself. “No, see, I don’t particularly like it when cowgirl FBI agents crash my party and start waving weapons in my face. So this gun is going nowhere, sweetheart.” 

She hesitated just a fraction of a second, he could hear her sudden, sharp inhale. Her outline, still shrouded in the darkness, stepped back a little, and her head tilted, thinking. He kept his gun steady, reaching with his other hand for a flashlight in his coat pocket. 

Before he could turn it on, she spoke. 

“Well, it’s been a long time since you called me that .”

He didn’t have a chance to process it as her arm lowered, and she began to approach him slowly. As she stepped into the light, he found himself staring straight into the eyes of the very ghost he had promised himself he wouldn’t summon.

Ziva. Ziva Freaking David. The name he’d tried not to think about for so long echoed through his skull as though she’d actually pulled the trigger. She wasn’t supposed to be here. Hell, he didn’t even think she’d still be in DC after this long. But there she was, in the flesh, with the letters FBI emblazoned across her front.

He froze, gun still raised. 

“Are you going to put that down, now?” she asked cooly, closing the gap between them until she was at point-blank range. Too close. Her hand raised, two fingers landing on the barrel of his gun and pushing it away from her face. 

No hesitation, no fear. Even after this long, she still trusted him. He wasn’t sure he’d return the favour if their roles were reversed. 

She raised her other hand, a flash of ID and a badge; proof of the seemingly impossible. 

Tony shook his head, finally holstering his weapon. “You’ve gotta be kidding me. Did you miss the memo? NCIS has this one.” 

“Did you miss the memo we took over when your people lost him in LA?” she shot back. 

That wasn’t his screw up, but the West Coast’s. Tony had barely been back for two days before he’d been given the lead when they’d received intel that their guy was in DC again. 

“Lost?” he scoffed. “That was a tactical relocation.” 

She shook her head, like she’d expected that answer all along. “You have always been bad at admitting failure, Tony,” she said smugly.  

“Oh, that’s rich coming from you.” No, that was veering into the personal; he needed to get back on track. “If you’re so on top of this, where were you three weeks ago in LA, then?” 

“Exactly where we needed to be.” Ziva crossed her arms. “Tracking his network through Europe, tracing funds transfers to work out where he’d be tonight. Waiting until he’d slipped through your fingers - again - so we could finish the job.” 

He let out a humourless laugh. “Because the Bureau taking over solves everything.” 

Ziva’s eyes narrowed. “At least we do not let pride get in the way of jurisdiction.” 

“Sure, jurisdiction ,” he repeated incredulously. “And it was your jurisdiction when you just happened to turn up here, tonight, with your guns drawn, was it?”

“This is an active investigation to bring down an internationally wanted criminal,” she replied smoothly. “Do you expect me to apologise for doing my job?”  

Tony didn’t actually know what he expected. Meeting Ziva as an equal - both team leaders, both calling the shots - was new. And for all his irritation, the FBI had just as much right to claim the takedown as NCIS. 

He was spared having to answer as their teams caught up. They edged through the door, still eyeing each other warily. They halted, looking uncertain if the greater threat was their missing fugitive or their commanding agents, currently locked in a standoff and looking like they were about two seconds away from throwing punches. 

“Put 'em away,” Tony sighed, nodding at his agents, weapons still drawn. 

“Boss?” Hanson questioned, her eyes darting from person to person, assessing the tension between them. The FBI agents still had their guns in hand, too. 

“You heard me. They aren’t going to give us any trouble, are they?” he asked pointedly. His eyes stayed on Ziva. 

She nodded once, crisply. “Lower your weapons,” she confirmed. “Agent DiNozzo and his team were just leaving,” she added as her agents obeyed. 

Having the Bureau get past his surveillance teams was bad enough. Discovering that the opposing team was headed up by the one person he didn’t want to see again was worse. The final straw was the blatant attempt to push NCIS out of their case. 

“Leaving was always your forte,” he snapped before he could stop himself. 

Ziva flinched, just for a second. A tiny crack in her armour. The words hung in the air like smoke from a gun he hadn’t meant to fire. The agents froze; the tension shifted. 

Hanson’s sharp gaze narrowed. Calculated. Until now, her quick mind had been one of the reasons he liked her best. “You two know each other,” she announced, suspiciously. 

Tony exhaled through his nose, his jaw tight. He didn’t want to do this. To explain. Didn’t even want to remember.  

Ziva had already schooled her face back into an impassive mask. Professional, with a hint of disdain. But she didn’t speak. She just waited, her eyebrows raised in the barest hint of a challenge. 

Tony swallowed hard. He knew he should ignore it, make a flippant remark and move on. Lie and bluff it out. He could leave the past buried exactly the way he’d planned to when he’d first returned to DC. 

Instead, the truth slipped out. “Yeah,” he admitted gruffly. “I know her.” 

A muscle in Ziva’s neck twitched. No other response. 

“I even married her, once.” 

Chapter Text

2009 

“Couldn’t live without you, I guess.”  

Tony and Ziva’s love, when they finally acknowledged it, felt inevitable. They had been hiding it for years, buried beneath duty, denial, empty flirting and other dates. But with the ashes of Somalia behind them and Tony’s unstoppable confession - one Ziva echoed in a whisper on the plane home - there seemed no reason to wait. 

From the tarmac, they went almost immediately to the courthouse. They gave it a couple of weeks, just long enough for the worst cuts and scrapes to heal and for Ziva’s eyes to lose the raw, wary edge of imprisonment. But they never questioned the decision. It felt like a new start, like everything they had been willing to sacrifice in that miserable desert cell was suddenly theirs to claim. 

Still riding a surreal tidal wave of relief and a rush of hope, they sealed the deal briefly but happily and went to dinner afterwards. No big dress, no hours-long reception and toasts, only the plainest of gold bands and their signatures on the dotted line. Just the two of them, the officiant and an unstoppable urge to fully embrace this second chance at love, life and each other. 

It was good, in fact, it was perfect. They were hopelessly, gloriously in love. 

They couldn’t stop touching, now that it was allowed. Of course, it had to be subtle at work, brushing fingers and stolen elevator kisses. But at home they were all over each other. There were slow dances in the kitchen, shared showers, whispers across the pillow at night with loving words swallowed by kisses and lazy Sundays wrapped up in each other. 

The sex was plentiful, soaring beyond expectation and into a realm neither one had predicted. Every time felt like it was the first and the last - tender and frantic, loving and urgent - a contrast of sensations and emotions that defied explanation. The way her every curve fitted into his hands like they had been made for each other and the way he knew just how to unravel her until everything exploded into a deep, all-consuming high. They couldn’t get enough. 

She stole his shirts and he let her because the sight almost melted his brain. He accepted that bacon did not count as a meal. She learned to fall asleep with the TV on low. He remembered to open the curtains instead of turning on the light.

Every drive was made as a couple, with playful arguments over the radio station, riding with their fingers laced over the centre console, and changing gears together. Sleepy mornings where the warmed sheets and the other body were just too cosy to leave until the threat of unemployment forced them from the bed. 

They were different, sure, but not incompatible, shifting and moulding their lives around each other until they were one unit. He preferred to toss his worn clothes on a chair, she refused to wash anything that did not make it into the laundry hamper. He made her laugh, she made him think. Tony brought music, movies and noise to the equation; Ziva added her novels, thoughtful silence and calm. She was structured, he was chaos - but somehow, they balanced it all in a hazy, delicious newlywed bubble. 

Together, they turned his Dupont Circle apartment into a home with shared routines, laughter, so much love that it seemed to spill over without meaning to, and the intoxicating sense that all of this was meant to be. It was something to call their own, and they revelled in it. 

At first, it was everything they could have hoped for. 

Then, suddenly, six months in, Ziva was pregnant. Something neither one of them was ready for. They’d been careful and she was still underweight from Somalia. It shouldn’t have happened, but it did anyway. It was the first moment of realisation that what they’d gotten into was more than long afterglows, date nights almost every night and the heady relief of simply being alive together. 

The news cast an unnatural hush over the apartment as they tried to process it. Every decision before this had been life-or-death, made in an instant, with an immediate and real payoff. But this felt different: a slow, creeping, finite timeline, much heavier than the expanse of “somedays” and “maybes” they’d vaguely considered before. 

The cluster of cells, a single flickering pixel on a screen, was somehow bigger and more permanent than anything they’d faced so far. A hypothetical nine months down the track was impossible to imagine, never mind the eighteen years after that. It was huge and unfathomable. They couldn’t find common ground in how they felt, and for the first time, they realised they weren’t on the same page anymore. They didn’t fight about it, not directly. But the space between them expanded anyway. Everything felt fragile, like if they said too much - if they admitted how terrified they were - it would crack something neither of them knew how to fix. 

Before they could work it out, it was over. No decisions to be made or options to consider; just an abrupt, painful ending they were even more ill-equipped to cope with. The doctor said it was one of those awful twists of fate; no way to predict it, no way to prevent it. They could try again whenever they wanted. They were granted a week’s compassionate leave to let the dust settle as best they could. 

The different pages turned into separate chapters. They grieved in opposite directions. Tony vanished into a bottle, Ziva into the gym. He drowned his feelings, and she burned hers away. Ultimately, the outcome was identical: an aching numbness to escape the weight of grief and the sharp sense of guilt that, just maybe, this had been for the best.

By the time they were back at work, everyone knew. They hadn’t told anyone but HR. But the whispers had spread, followed by hushed condolences and murmurs of a better outcome next time. 

“Next time” was not something either one wanted to think about. Too raw from the loss. Too lonely from the unexpected distance that grew between as they coped with their heartache and confusion in such different ways. The idea of trying again was too terrifying to even talk about. 

So they didn’t. Or about much else, either. The silence that had fallen lingered. 

Still, the weight of it remained. In unspoken looks and poignant silences, and well-meaning colleagues who offered advice. The concept itself became suffocating. What it would all mean if they did. How incompatible field work and pregnancy were. That Ziva taking a desk job was a foregone conclusion if it worked next time. The impossibility of raising a child with work hours like theirs. The uncomfortable feeling that everyone in the office was more invested in this hypothetical second try than they were, that maybe, something was wrong with them for not wanting to risk this kind of pain and uncertainty again.  

Ziva’s eyes grew hollow and haunted. She felt weighed down by thoughts she couldn’t share with Tony, afraid to speak her truth and disappoint him. Already the questioning look in his eyes told her she was letting him down. Tony, in turn, became restless, determined to fix things in ways he thought she needed, trying to push through his own misgivings, believing if he could will himself to be ready again, it might take the ache out of her gaze. 

When they broached the subject again and gave themselves over to what they thought the other wanted, neither could hear the false bravado in the other's voice. He took her out for dinner and - haltingly - uttered the fateful words “next time.” The next day, Ziva requested a transfer to a role in the Translation Office.  

It was the beginning of the end. 

Chapter Text

Before long, the chapters they lived in weren't even in the same book. 

Ziva burned quietly, the monotonous repetition of the translation office gnawing at her. It took only two weeks for her to loathe it. The steady hum of fluorescent lights replaced the chaos of the field. Reports stacked higher than the bodies once had. The words bled together, caging her in again. She missed everything she had once been. But this was what Tony had needed her to do - wasn’t it?  

Tony sulked, the team feeling incomplete and off-kilter without her presence. No one could read his mind in the field quite like she had. Even their lunches fell at different times. He could go a whole day without seeing her now, and when he did, the smiles were strained at best. But Ziva had wanted this change, hadn’t she? 

At home, the space between them expanded further, too. They no longer compared notes or commiserated with tough cases. The McNickname he’d expected her to laugh at landed flat without the shared context to tether it. She sighed over long paragraphs in a language he couldn’t understand, and for the first time, he didn’t bother to ask her to translate, or maybe she simply never offered. 

The chasm widened. Shared drives to work stopped happening. At first, there were daily excuses. Monday, Ziva needed to go to the gym before she had to be at her desk; on Tuesday, Tony needed the extra half hour of sleep after a long stakeout. By Friday, they didn’t bother explaining and just took separate cars. She started to close the bathroom door when she showered, he no longer patted the cushion beside him in invitation when she walked into the room. She turned in early, he stayed up late.

The silences stretched longer, and words became brief, functional at best. Routine and habit replaced conversation. Tony still made the coffee on weekends but didn't wait to drink it together; Ziva still cooked for two, but they ate silently. When they did speak, it was all about necessities. They were out of milk, was the electric bill paid and it was whose turn to take out the trash.

The apartment itself remained spotless. Surfaces wiped down and dusted, the mail organised, no dishes left in the sink. Tony’s clothes always made it to the hamper, Ziva never left a novel half-finished on the sofa anymore. It wasn’t just the traces of themselves sharing the space that had vanished, but the emotions behind those actions. Without the warmth, their connection, the love and pride in the place they called home it felt sterile. Clean and spacious became hollow and frigid. 

They coexisted, orbiting each other, silently wondering why their sacrifices had not bridged the gap between them. Neither of them mentioned why they had made this change. “Next time” had crumbled beneath its own weight, slipping into the cracks between them. It was never forgotten but simply too painful to touch. It had stopped mattering, anyway. An invisible but impenetrable boundary had formed down the middle of the bed weeks earlier. 

And yet, in the quietest moments, when they thought the other wasn’t looking, they would find themselves searching for something familiar. A sense of what had been, what they still felt within themselves and wanted to give: a look that lingered a second too long, a special tenderness in the way the other’s name formed on their lips, or a fleeting brush of a hand as they passed in the hall. A quiet inhalation when the other entered the room, like maybe this would be the night they’d say something that brought them back together. 

But it never came. 

The fear of losing one another had been what pulled them together. But now even in the same house they were further apart than they’d ever been; stuck in an aching silence that neither one knew how to break anymore. And in that silence everything else withered.

If their marriage had been a whirlwind, then what came next was a landslide. 

Even though it was inevitable - a romance that had fizzled as suddenly as it had ignited and grown stagnant - neither one was ready for just how suddenly it would turn sour. Each of them chafed with unspoken resentment and the continual wonder of why the other didn’t just open up. There was no single moment when it happened, no outright betrayal or identifiable misstep. It was quieter, slower. A thousand small wounds that never healed because neither of them ever admitted aloud that they were bleeding.

Tony masked his pain in sarcasm. Little jabs that sounded funny but were razor-sharp. Laundry was easier now that there were no bloodstains on her gym gear anymore. That three things in life were inevitable: death, taxes and Ziva’s 9 to 5. He couldn’t help himself, every quip was another layer of frustration and loneliness he didn’t have another way to express. 

Ziva turned icy, her words sharper, her eyes narrower. The resentment was evident in her gaze. She was angry that he was making jokes at her expense, angrier still that she felt the sting of each one so intensely. With each new thorn, she shut him out harder. 

Despite hating every moment of it, they carried on, letting the wounds fester, growing more and more bitter with each passing day, with every cold look and snarky remark. All the hurt between them grew so thick that neither one felt like they could breathe without choking on the other’s disdain. 

It broke suddenly, their first - and only - real fight. The kind that left nothing but wreckage in its wake. Not the passive-aggressive jabs or resentful silences but something deeper and far more hurtful, the ugliest feelings rearing their heads. A line too sarcastic, a look too cutting, and the fuse was lit. 

Everything poured out all at once, all the months of discontent, of frustration, of loneliness. All of the ways they had diverged from what had once been a shared path. Missing each other and missing who they had been before. The blame was squarely laid at each other’s feet. Two versions of the truth spilled out, only to discover the other never saw it that way. 

She blamed him for her new role; if he hadn’t said he wanted kids, she never would have transferred. He had pushed her into this choice. He fired back that he never asked her to, that taking the translation role was just another version of her running away. The isolation and distance? That was on her, shutting down like usual. 

They raged on - accusations, defenses, regrets - two people who no longer recognised themselves or the person they had married. The change had come too fast, one neither of them wanted. Trapped in the confines of being someone they were not, with no thanks for the sacrifice they felt they were making. Crushed by the impossible demands they felt pressing on them. It just kept spilling out; every burden they carried was laid bare, more alike than either one of them was able or willing to recognise. The moment that could have brought unity was distorted into a feeling of isolation and pushed them to a point of no return. 

It was circular and vicious. There would be no victor, no resolution. Only destruction. The words turned cruel, cutting in a way that could only be managed because there had been deep love at its core. They knew exactly where to strike and how to make it hurt. And they did, relentlessly. They no longer cared if it caused pain because it was easier than the alternative - acknowledging the uncomfortable sense of guilt that had settled in their stomachs. 

The stormy scene blew itself out in one last spiteful question, “Do you even want this anymore?” spat almost in unison, even now at complete odds, they shared an odd synchronicity of thoughts. The silence that followed was louder than the hours that had come before. 

No. They didn't. 

There was nothing left to salvage. Neither one had anything left to give. By the time it was over, all that remained was a deep, bone-weary exhaustion and the knowledge that they were done. 

It was Ziva who called it in the end. “I have to leave.” There was no question, no more accusations, no silent hope he would tell her not to; it was just a fact. For the first time that night, he didn't argue. 

In the numb, silent relief that followed, his phone rang. With nothing better to do, he answered; it was the maître d’ from the restaurant where they had had their one small celebration of their marriage after they'd left the courthouse. Wide-eyed and optimistic, they'd booked their first anniversary dinner the same day. He was calling to confirm their reservation for the following night. 

Tony politely cancelled. Declined a reschedule. Hung up. 

Then, he stood and very deliberately hurled his phone at the wall. 

Chapter Text

The next day took forever to come. 

Ziva appeared a little after ten, silent and drawn. She wasn’t tearful, or angry, just that same dry-eyed exhaustion that Tony felt in his own gaze as he answered the door. It was when she knocked instead of letting herself in that it became real. She didn’t live there anymore. 

There were no apologies, no grand reconciliations. Neither one of them acknowledged the date, although they both knew precisely when it was. They didn’t even talk about why she was there, that part was understood. The only thing left now was logistics. 

Tony cleared out while she packed her things. He didn’t ask if she wanted him to go and she didn’t ask him to leave. They’d already been moving around each other like ghosts for so long, there was no point in changing that pattern now. She was already pulling her novels off the shelf when he shut the door behind him. 

He drove aimlessly for a while, then parked outside a coffee shop with no intention of going in. Instead he stared at the wall and waited. When the text came - a single word, Done - he sat for a while longer, not sure why. It wasn’t like he was waiting for anything. Not closure, not regret. Just time to pass.

Eventually, he started the engine and went home.

It felt like a crime scene that had been cleaned too well. It was almost impossible to tell she’d been there. No stray hair ties, no shoes by the door, not even the smell of her shampoo lingering in the bathroom. The only things she left behind were keys on the counter and a space where her pillow used to be. No note. No trace.

She didn’t tell him where she went, and he didn’t care enough to ask.

The day after that, they simply showed up at work without their wedding rings. Neither one of them commented on it, or asked what they’d done with the jewellery. Neither did their colleagues. But everyone noticed. 

There was no announcement, no dramatic confrontation. Just the absence of something that had been there before. There were a few glances, some furrowed brows, but no one dared to ask. Maybe it was the way they carried themselves; Tony, all forced ease and casual indifference, and Ziva, composed and impenetrable. Maybe it was because those who knew them best had already sensed the cracks forming long before.

Either way, the message was clear. Whatever had been left of their marriage had finally shattered.

Calling it quits was easy. Waiting for it to be over and done with on paper was harder.

For six months, they were legally tethered to something they had already given up on. The law required it, a cruel joke - as if time could undo what had been said or rewrite their ending. 

For Tony and Ziva, only work remained. They crossed paths often, perhaps more than they had in the last weeks of living together. Of course, there was the forced interaction of sharing a workplace, but there was also a quiet, bitter feud brewing, a stubborn battle of wills, each one wanting to outlast the other in the one common place they had left. They appeared in each other’s peripheral vision more often than necessary. A name would be overheard or a laugh that had once lightened the dark of their bedroom. Never enough to be obvious, but always enough to remind them that it wouldn’t - couldn’t be over that easily.

Ziva wouldn’t leave. She had probation to finish. Tony was just too damn stubborn, he’d been there first, after all. So they both stayed, trapped in a bureaucratic nightmare and harbouring mutual resentment that they now had to share the thing they valued most - their career - with the person they wanted to be around the least. 

Tony leaned on bravado, loudly confident and nonchalant. He cracked jokes, innocuous on the surface but with a cruel edge that only she could perceive. Ziva, on the other hand, shut down. Already accused of being cold, she turned even frostier. Her tone was always scrupulously polite, but her eyes were empty, looking right through him as though she didn’t even care enough to hate him.

They weren’t fooling anyone else, either. Work was unforgiving of uncomfortable silences and awkward glances. Different departments meant they didn’t have to talk often, but overlap was inevitable. When it happened, they navigated it like a battlefield; strained civility, overly formal emails, clipped professionalism in meetings. Every glance was careful, every interaction calculated.

Instead of avoiding each other, they overcorrected. Doubled down on performance. Their cases got closed faster, reports were filed ahead of schedule, and their work hours stretched longer than necessary. Supervisors were impressed. Their coworkers gave them space. No one said it outright, but everyone noticed how their professionalism had become absolute. Clinical. Impenetrable.

Once, they were both assigned to the same inter-agency briefing on short notice. There was no one else available - they’d both asked. A fact they made clear in hissed undertones before stepping into the conference room, faces composed and expressions unreadable.

They didn’t make eye contact the rest of the day, but they worked seamlessly, as if the muscle memory of being partners hadn’t faded. Tony passed her a file without asking. Ziva corrected his translation mid-sentence without even looking up. The meeting ended with compliments on their cooperation. Neither of them reacted. They left through different doors.

It was an exhausting game.

When the strain of being polite grew tiring, the bitterness surfaced. Surnames and titles were used with acerbic deliberation, a purposeful stripping away of familiarity, to drive home the absolute finality of their breakup to anyone in the vicinity. He mentioned a date once, offhand, loud enough to be sure she heard too. Ziva, without missing a beat, asked if it was her graduation ceremony, a deliberate jab that no one knew the last time he’d dated someone who matched him in age. The first time a male intern flashed a smile in her direction, Tony strolled past ‘casually’ and asked why she wasn’t wearing her wedding ring that day. The kid ran so fast he might as well have left scorch marks in the carpet.  

None of it felt like a victory. Even when the barbs hit home and a flicker of hurt or anger flared in the other’s eyes, it didn’t feel like a win. Instead, it was a reminder of how much they had once shared and everything they’d lost. The closeness that had let them become attuned enough to see the subtle response only made the silence that followed feel louder, the space between them wider. Still, neither one could stop, stuck in the vicious cycle of anger and one-upmanship. 

It dragged on, day by agonising day, infinite and unbearable. Six months was supposed to be time to think, time to process. Maybe even to reconsider and reconcile. Instead, it was six months of limbo, of confirming over and over again that there was nothing left to save.

At some point, the exhaustion crept in. The fights faded, not because things got better, but because there was nothing left to fight for. The sharp words dulled, and the snark lost its fire. It became a habit, muscle memory, something they did simply because stopping would mean acknowledging how hollow it had all become. Even resentment took effort, and they were both too damn tired.

The day before the court date, Tony spent an extra five minutes staring at the final paperwork on his desk. It was just a signature. A formality. They hadn’t spoken - or fought - in weeks. Even their conflict had faded out so gradually this final, official end barely felt like an event at all. As he signed, he was aware of something settling, not doubt, not grief, just a quietness in the background, almost like the hum of a fan being switched off at last. 

Ziva didn’t hesitate. She signed her copy without ceremony, the pen moving with mechanical ease. No pause, no breath held, just ink on paper. She didn't look at the page once it was done, just capped the pen and set it down like she was finishing a grocery list. Not satisfying, exactly, but necessary. Efficient. A task completed. There was no sadness, no second-guessing. Just the quiet certainty that whatever this had been, it was over and that was better than what it had become.

The next morning, they sat in the same room for the last time as husband and wife. The judge asked if there were any objections, any last-minute changes. Neither one spoke. They just wanted it done - no contest, no alimony, no fight. 

For all the complexity of the past few months, the process was simple. A couple of stamps, a few formal words and it was over. They left without saying a word. 

The same day the divorce was granted, Tony accepted a position in Naples. Ziva bought a ticket to Israel with no set return. 

Neither one looked back. 

Chapter Text

2015 

The bombshell did not have the effect Tony expected. Instead of backing down or lashing out, Ziva’s face blanked again. That same emptiness she’d wielded in between cutting remarks from before. He’d expected, after so long apart, that it would have hurt less to have her look right through him like that.

A silence fell, tense and uncomfortable. Each waited for the other to make a move, their agents hesitating, caught in their superiors’ stalemate.  

“I told you she’d been married. You owe me a twenty.” Ziva’s head whipped around at the whisper from the shorter of her agents. If looks could kill, the young man would have been incinerated on the spot. As it was, he squirmed uncomfortably, clearly regretting his choice to speak. 

Tony’s lips twitched, but he remained silent, thankful that his agents had read the room well enough not to comment aloud. He might have cracked with the personal reveal, but at least his team hadn’t rubbed it in.

Ziva exhaled slowly and turned to face him, her gaze flat and unimpressed. “Are you quite done?” she asked with the patience of one talking to a small child. 

It wasn’t a question, not really. Just like that, she’d dismissed him again. 

For a second, he almost laughed. Five years without laying eyes on each other and they’d picked up exactly where they’d left off. Barbs and blank stares, still looking for the best way to get under each other’s skin. The old fire wasn’t there, just the motions, hollow and practiced. They wouldn’t see each other again, anyway, so what was the point? 

Static crackled in his earpiece before he had a chance to decide what came next. 

“Boss, there's movement. The southwest fire escape. Looks like he’s running for it.”  

The warning from the external surveillance crew snapped him back to reality. Right, the case. The guy had been upstairs all along.

“Southwest fire escape,” he repeated. It wasn’t an instruction but a prompt. He already knew it wouldn’t be his team who’d respond the way he wanted. They hadn’t known him long enough to predict the next move. Not like she would.   

Ziva’s eyes locked onto his, and everything else fell away. The tension, the power games, the years apart - everything dissolved in a heartbeat. A single nod; focus, cooperation, a shared goal. They would do this together. 

It wasn’t just instinct, it was also a memory. Not of what they’d become, but how they’d begun. A connection like no other, before they tainted it with resentment and failed dreams. Countless missions, seamless movement, and unspoken communication. Chasing the bad guy and always having each other’s backs. No one played this game better than they had. 

There were no plans, no hesitation. They split in perfect synchronicity, leaving their agents scrambling to follow suit. They’d done this a hundred times before. She’d go in high, he’d take low. Trap their perp in the middle. 

“I’ll take the stairs,” she called, already moving. 

Meet you at the bottom,” he shot back, sprinting towards the outer door. 

“Not if I get there first!” Her voice faded as she headed for the upper level. 

His grin was automatic. The past was a mess, the present a headache, but this? 

This he had missed. 

Once their suspect had been transported back to NCIS and left in a holding cell, the adrenaline wore off. It was late; their agents had gone home, and only the two of them remained. With each step closer to the case being closed, the perfectly synchronised accord they'd reached in the warehouse began to fall away again, too. The realisation that this was not his partner but his ex-wife sank back in. It was a sentiment Ziva seemed to share as she slipped away while he finished the handover. 

Tony found her pacing out the bullpen with careful steps, her gaze always circling back to her old desk. It was Agent Fletcher’s now, although she didn’t know that. He stayed quiet and let her take it in. He knew how it felt; the same sensation had hit him when he'd first walked back in there a few days earlier. 

It hadn’t changed so much to be unrecognisable, but it was different. He now sat in the Team Leader’s position, Hanson had an odd thing for owls, Coop’s backboard had endless photos of his dog, and Fletcher had a small Irish flag in her pen holder. Even with those new marks of ownership, it didn’t seem so far removed from the day first she’d walked in, her hair wrapped in a scarf and asked if he was having phone sex 

When she had finished her quiet observation, it struck him - he was the only face she’d know on the floor now. Ducky, Jimmy and Abby were still occupying the lower levels of the building, but Gibbs had retired, while McGee had gone for the administrative route, warming an Assistant Director seat upstairs. He wasn’t sure if being her only link to the past in this place was good or bad. 

He cleared his throat gently, although she’d probably sensed him standing there the whole time. “You can sit, you know,” he said. “Fletcher’s not territorial, she won’t mind.” 

She glanced at him, then the chair, but didn’t move. “It is not my desk anymore,” she said with a little shrug. Her eyes flicked across the space - his old desk - significantly. He didn’t sit where he used to, either. 

“Yeah, well. Could say that about a lot of things in this room.” The snark was instinctive, even if he couldn’t find it in himself to deliver it with the same venom he’d felt just a few hours earlier. 

Ziva’s shoulders slumped just slightly, and she shook her head wearily. “I’m done with that, Tony,” she said, her voice quieter now. “Just don’t.”

It wasn't a plea or the same hard dismissal from before. She just sounded tired of it all. Suddenly, he realised, he was too. 

“Yeah,” he said slowly. “Point taken,” he muttered, his voice flat, the weight of his own words settling heavier than he wanted to admit. 

Suddenly, their stalemate became a truce. For a moment, the room felt too heavy, as though without the fighting, they didn’t know how to exist in the same space anymore. The silence stretched, long and brittle rather than volatile. 

Ziva sighed, turning to face her old desk again. “You were not supposed to be there,” she said at last. He knew she didn't just mean the jurisdiction screw up, but rather the fact that he was there at all.  

“Yeah,” he huffed a weak laugh. “Neither were you. Didn't turn out so bad, though. We got him.” 

“And I did not have to shoot you,” Ziva added dryly. She drifted around behind Fletcher's desk, tracing her fingers along the back of the chair. Then, she eased herself into the seat, cautiously, as though she was worried she wouldn't fit anymore. 

Tony sniggered. “Thanks for that. So how many questions will your hired goons ask about what happened tonight?” 

“My agents ,” she corrected firmly. “And none, if they know what is good for them.” He had a sudden flash of her in charge, focused, determined, a driving force. He wondered how many of her father’s traits showed up in her leadership despite her best efforts to stifle them. 

Tony turned, planning to head to his seat, but instead, found himself drawn almost magnetically to fit himself behind Hanson's desk, the spot he'd occupied five years earlier, directly opposite Ziva. They viewed each other across the space, the same way they had for years before everything went wrong. 

“Well, this feels weird,” he commented. Looking for something else to think about, he picked up one of the many small owl figurines and turned it over in his hands. 

Ziva stiffened, looking uncomfortable. “I should go. We are done, yes?” 

He nodded, still studying the bird. It was surprisingly realistic. The printing on the bottom read “Powerful Owl.” He didn't even know that species existed. “The case? Yeah, for now. Nothing that can't wait till the daily 9-to-5 grind anyway.” 

They both winced. Little Miss 9-to-5 had been one of the sarcastic quips he'd thrown at her when they'd first begun to struggle with her leaving the team for translation. 

He exhaled, setting the owl back down. “Ziva... I didn't mean it like that. Just, you know, it’s all paperwork. Someone’s gonna want to know how both agencies showed up there without liaising first, and I’d rather we told it in a way that didn’t lead to even more forms to fill in. Tomorrow’s fine.” 

Ziva’s expression stayed guarded, but she nodded anyway. “I know. But what was it Gibbs used to say - that you used to do your best work at night?” 

“So did you.” The answer slipped out too easily. They both knew he wasn’t talking about her casework. 

“That has not changed.” For a second, something shifted. A ghost of that enigmatic smile, the light in her eyes saying more than her words, a flash of the Ziva he’d known before. It didn’t feel like flirting, more like their old selves emerging despite the cautious, slightly stilted energy between them. 

Just as quickly, the moment passed. 

“So, uh...” he tapped the desk with the side of his thumb, restless but still unwilling to leave at the same time. “You made Team Lead, huh? Looks good on you.” 

She nodded. “A few months ago. You?” 

“I signed a transfer to Naples the same day we...” he faded. Let the conclusion they both knew go unspoken.

Ziva said it anyway. “We got divorced, Tony. You can say it.” 

He swallowed. “Yeah, that. Anyway, I took the lead there, only got back to DC a couple weeks ago. Gibbs retired, you know.” 

“I know, I was at his farewell party,” she said. “I thought you would be there.” 

The news that she had stayed in touch surprised him. He hadn’t been great about maintaining contact with his old colleagues, but he’d expected one of them to mention that they were still seeing Ziva during their sporadic email exchanges. 

He shrugged. “Couldn’t make it. Connecting flights, you know how it is. But I never thought he’d leave, you know? he chuckled. “Thought I was hearing things when Vance called to tell me the spot was open.” 

She laughed, a single soft beat. “I know. He actually sounded at peace with his decision. He was less thrilled about the party, of course. But retiring... well, he seemed ready.” 

“Always figured he’d go down in the line of fire or still be chasing perps with a Zimmer frame when he was 90.” He gave a hollow chuckle. “But walking away when you’re ready and still have a life to live, before it gets the better of you... that’s not something everyone gets to do.” 

For a moment, neither of them spoke. They’d walked away too, but unlike Gibbs everything had got the better of them.  

Ziva shivered a little. “There are too many ghosts in this place,” she commented, glancing up at the catwalk uncomfortably. 

He stood, pushing away from the desk as though getting out of their old work positions could break the spell. “Yeah. Look, how bout we call it a night and finish our notes in the morning before work? Do you want to take it somewhere else? Neutral territory, you know?” 

“Yes,” she agreed. “I think that may be best.” She stood too, picking up her coat, every movement deliberate and slow as though she waited for him to say something else. 

Tony felt it too, although he didn’t know what he was meant to say. “I’ll, uh, I’ll call you in the morning, yeah?” 

Ziva nodded, sliding her arms into the sleeves. “My number has not changed. Do you still have it?” 

Tony had erased it from his phone when he’d landed in Naples as if it could also wipe his own memory of the last, hellish months they’d been in the same place. It hadn’t helped; the digits - and the rest of it - had stayed etched in his brain. “Sure. You know a place? I’m kind of new to the area,” he added, one last bit of humour.  

She nodded again, softer, her face thoughtful. “Goodnight, Tony.” 

“Goodnight, Ziva.” He rubbed a hand across the back of his neck as he watched her head for the elevator. That conversation could’ve gone a dozen different ways, most of them worse. For a second it had almost felt normal. Familiar even. Like the years between had never happened and she’d just wandered in from a coffee run.

As the doors slid shut behind her, he realised something - the ghosts he’d tried to avoid when he’d returned to DC didn’t seem so scary after all. 

Chapter Text

The cafe Ziva had chosen didn’t feel completely new; Tony was sure he’d been there before, the address she’d given on the phone rang a bell, and so did the florist next door. However, when he found a parking space and walked in, he didn’t recognise any of it. Unfamiliar yet familiar all at once. Kind of like everything else in the last 12 hours. 

Scanning the room from the threshold, it smelled promising: dark roasts, warm but not burnt toast, and a hint of vanilla. The room was busy but not overflowing, with a mix of college students and white-collar professionals who sat at spacious tables big enough for a spread of textbooks or laptops. Although everyone was focused on the work in front of them, it was not uncomfortably quiet. A soft buzz of chatter and a sound system playing something floaty and acoustic added enough buffer to worry about being overheard. He understood at once why she’d suggested this place.  

He spotted her at a table a little way in. The strategic choice had Ziva written all over it. Hard to see from the street, but easy to keep one eye on the front door to avoid surprises and close enough to the kitchen if an alternate exit was needed in a hurry.  He almost rolled his eyes, but instead found a smile creeping in; it was exactly the same table he’d have chosen, too. 

“You’re early,” he said as a way of greeting after the floor staff waved him through. “Parking is a nightmare out there. Still driving like crazy, I see.” 

Ziva put her phone down on the table as he arrived. “I parked at work and I walked,” she replied deadpan. “You are early, too,” she added, gesturing to him to sit down. 

“Yeah, I figured you’re still a morning person,” he said, pulling out the chair opposite her and heaving his bag onto the empty seat beside him. 

A waitress appeared just as he sat, placing what looked like a perfectly made, very large cappuccino in front of him, complete with a wad of sweetener packets on the saucer. Even the cups fitted the vibe of the place, heavy, brightly coloured ceramics, each painted in distinct but somehow cohesive designs. 

"You ordered for me?” he asked, a little surprised. It wasn’t that she’d remembered his order. He still knew exactly how she had her coffee, too - Americano with cold skim milk on the side. It was the fact that she had gone ahead and got it that seemed weird. Not to mention where that gesture had come from - habit, thoughtfulness or polite professionalism - he couldn’t decide which. 

Ziva thanked the waitress as she left before she nodded at him. “I figured you are still not a morning person,” she returned with a smirk. Okay, she had him pegged there. Or maybe she’d just heard the sleep in his voice when he’d set his alarm and called her half an hour before he’d usually have risen, knowing she’d be expecting his call. When they’d talked, he could hear the steady pounding of her feet, she’d already been out on her morning run.  

“Besides, I can write it off as a work expense,” she added, splashing milk carefully into her cup. 

“Oh yeah, Team Lead perks.” He nodded, relieved. That made more sense, at least, nothing to read into there. “Thanks, the next round is on NCIS then.” He picked up his spoon and scooped a hole in the foam. 

“Tony, stop.” She reached out suddenly, grabbing at him before he picked up the sweetener. They’d managed the whole takedown and arrest the night before without so much as bumping their arms or brushing their fingers. It was the first time they’d actually made physical contact in years. To his surprise, neither one of them spontaneously burst into flames. 

He froze, staring at the slim, tanned fingers around his wrist. Ziva froze too, suddenly seeming aware of what she’d done. It was definitely not intentional; that much was clear. She gasped and let go, yanking her hand back as though she’d been burned. 

She cleared her throat awkwardly. “Sorry. Just - the coffee here is incredible. You should try it plain, first,” she said, crossing her arms self-consciously. “Before you ruin it with all that... stuff.” She flicked one hand disparagingly at the little pink sachets but kept it close to her body, still looking embarrassed. 

He rolled his eyes, taking the jab in his stride. The anti-sweetener debate had started long before they’d been married. One of those things they’d never given up on, as though the difference between sugar and aspartame was as important as saving the world. Ziva, purist to the core, had always taken real sugar and, alongside the mixed health rumours, swore there was an aftertaste in anything artificially sweetened, from sodas to ice cream. Tony, meanwhile, had never been able to tell the difference. 

“I told you; they disproved the brain cancer link years ago. It’s perfectly safe. But fine.” He lifted the cup to his mouth and sipped. She was right, it was rich and fruity and bitter, but in a good way. “Okay, that is pretty good,” he admitted. “Didn’t this place suck?” 

She relaxed a little, lips quirking upwards slightly. “Yes, this is where we stopped once when McGee recommended it; he said it was amazing. Gibbs was so offended about the coffee they served back then, he didn’t talk to McGee for a week. It was after the case with the alpacas.”

The memory came back slowly, and he grinned. “I remember that. I thought Gibbs was going to give him lines to write out. Rule 23: Never mess with a Marine's coffee if you want to live 50 times or something,” he laughed. So did Ziva, her curled lip blooming into a proper smile. “So they got better at what they do, I guess. When was that?” he continued. 

“They changed hands last year.” She paused and sipped her coffee. “My yoga studio is upstairs, and the first morning they reopened, the scent came up into the room. It smelled so good that we had to finish ten minutes early because everyone’s stomachs kept growling.” 

So she did yoga now. Well, that explained why she could sit opposite him looking almost exactly like she had the last time he’d seen her. With the tactical gear from the night before gone and her usual fitted but not clingy office wear in place, he could tell she’d hardly changed a bit. His belt, meanwhile, had been let out two or three holes in the same time frame, and he preferred it if people didn’t mention his hairline.  

He sipped the coffee again. It was good, but still not quite to his taste. Instead of the sweetener, he reached for the little paper tubes of sugar, adding only one. Ziva shook her head but said nothing. 

"Yoga, huh? That’s new. Are you mastering the art of being all zen or letting go of the stresses of keeping your flying monkeys on a leash?” He kept his tone light, free of any malice. It wasn’t so much comparing her to the Wicked Witch, but it was another chance to call her team anything besides agents. 

Ziva’s mouth pursed, almost a smile. She understood the joke but wasn’t going to bite. “Something like that. But speaking of leading teams, Very Special Agent DiNozzo -” her tone was mocking but not unkind. “We are here for a reason.” 

“Right,” he sighed. He reached for his bag, pulling out a folder. “But I’ve got my own team now, so that's Very Very Special Agent to you.” 

Ziva nodded sarcastically, reaching for her bag, too. “If you say so.” She dropped her collection of papers on the table and sighed, too. “This part never gets more exciting.” 

“It doesn’t,” he agreed, flipping the folder open. “Only three things in this life are inevitable. Death, taxes and administrative red tape.”

Ziva hummed, already squinting at a paragraph of tiny print. “We will always have paperwork.” 

The Casablanca reference brought a smile to his face - or maybe it was the quick way her eyes flashed up at him under her lashes, a coy smile, obviously pleased that she’d dropped a movie reference in answer to his Wizard of Oz quip. 

“I don’t remember that being in the original script,” he chuckled. “Okay, how do we explain this without getting either one of our asses kicked...?” 

Chapter Text

“So,” Tony sighed, scribbling one last signature at the bottom of the page. “Think that’ll get them off our backs?” 

“I hope so,” Ziva agreed. Clicking her pen, she tossed it onto the table and stretched her arms overhead. “I am just impressed you did not try to throw me under the train,” she yawned. 

He snorted. “Bus, Ziva. Throw you under the bus .” He paused, thinking for a second. “Not gonna lie though, I did think about it last night.” 

It had taken some time, but they’d found a diplomatic middle ground to explain the situation that didn’t leave either agency looking incompetent. The last hour or so had gone by not quickly - it never did when reports were concerned - but they’d settled in and worked more smoothly than he had expected. 

That had surprised him. Even if they seemed to have reached a truce in regards to the steaming wreck of a marriage, he’d still been bracing for snide comments about NCIS’s outdated systems and a solid dose of holier-than-thou that she’d picked up from the FBI. He even had a backup arsenal of comebacks, plotted on the drive over. But he’d never needed them. They’d both seemed… focused. A little cautious, maybe. But focused. Like they knew that pushing each other, today of all days, would get them nowhere.

Ziva smirked as she sorted the papers into two piles, his and hers. “So did I,” she confessed. Reaching for her coffee again, she tilted the cup towards her before setting it down with a small frown. 

Tony barely registered the action, looked around, found the waitress who’d delivered their first round close by, flagged her down, asked for two more, paid with a twenty and told her to keep the change. It wasn’t until he caught Ziva watching him curiously that he’d realised what he’d done. 

Damn. He used to do that all the time in the beginning. One glance at an empty drink was all it took, and he’d order a refill. She’d never had to ask. Their last dinner date - the one where he’d stupidly said he was ready to try for another baby - he’d done the same thing, only it had been wine back then. Thinking about it, it might have been the last time she’d genuinely smiled at him, amused by how his hand practically shot into the air before his brain had caught up. 

She hadn’t looked at him like that since.

Ziva, partway through stashing her files back in her satchel, tilted her head curiously. “I thought we were done?” she asked hesitantly. 

“With the paperwork, yeah.” He shrugged, looking for an answer that didn’t reveal how automatically he’d responded to her unspoken prompt. “But I owed you a coffee. Not going to walk out of here owing an FBI agent anything,” he explained with a shrug. Yeah, that was easier, plain good manners and a quick, playful jab at her new agency, even if they had to sit through another coffee together before they went their separate ways. 

Ziva frowned and glanced down at her empty cup. Her eyes widened as she remembered too, suddenly understanding how she’d cued him in. She opened her mouth like she was about to say something about it, then hesitated. She closed her mouth, shook her head and started again.

“Well, technically, NCIS owed me a coffee,” she said lightly. “But thank you.” She tucked the papers in firmly and settled back into her seat. 

They went quiet again, the silence more awkward than before. Tony reached for the spoon, stirring his empty cup just to keep his hands busy. Ziva sighed and snapped the latch on her bag. They’d managed fine when there had been an external reason to be together, but now, extending this meeting for no reason other than habit, he had no idea where to begin. 

He glanced across the table. She was sitting up straight, composed, but her fingers kept fidgeting with the strap of her bag. There was a tension there he knew well, like she was preparing for an exit. She’d never liked small talk. 

“You’d think after this long we’d have something to say,” he cracked, eager to fill the silence. “Five years, you know.” 

“Yeah,” Ziva agreed, nodding. Her voice was a little more guarded now. It was clear work had been a good shield for her as well. It always had been. 

They stayed quiet until the waitress reappeared, setting down fresh drinks. She glanced at them curiously, obviously sensing their hesitation. 

“You know,” she said conversationally, picking up their empty cups. “You can always decide to change your destination once you’re travelling, but if you never start at all, you’re just going nowhere. Enjoy!” She turned, the sleeper in her eyebrow catching the light and headed to the next table. 

Tony turned to watch her leave, trying to work out the meaning of what she’d said. “I always like a free riddle with my morning coffee,” he commented. “You got any translation? You’re the polyglot.” He turned back to Ziva. 

She frowned, thinking it over. “I think,” she began slowly. “She meant that we just need to start talking. If something comes up that we do not want to mention, then we should say so and change the subject.” She slid a sugar packet across the table to him. 

“Okay, right.” He nodded slowly. “You sure Ducky doesn't have any kids? She could pass as his granddaughter with cryptic advice like that.” 

The remark earned him a quick laugh. “You still work with him, don’t ask me!” she shot back, holding her hands up, absolving herself of any responsibility. 

The mention of work reminded him of the question that had been itching in his mind since the previous night. That she had been there at all still took first place in terms of surprises, but seeing her in FBI getup had been a close second. 

“Yeah, about that. FBI? Really?” he asked. He tipped the sugar into his cup. “Of all the agencies, in all the world... How did you end up there?”

Ziva sighed, splashing milk into her coffee. “You went to Naples, I went to Israel. Just a holiday, not a transfer. To see some friends, visit my home, and have time to myself after everything. When I came back, I transferred.” 

“But the FBI?” he pressed. “After all the headaches they gave us? What was it, the lure of a more respected agency, better pay?” 

“Well, it is nice that people do not ask if I exist anymore. And they are better funded, so investigations are easier,” she admitted with a shrug. She seemed almost a little bashful to be enjoying the same qualities they had mocked Bureau agents for in the past. 

But then Ziva paused, her face hesitant and drummed on the table with her fingers. She tilted her head again, assessing him, obviously deciding whether or not to keep talking. She clenched and unclenched her hands a couple of times and blew out a deep breath before continuing. “But no, that was not it. After everything, NCIS felt different. I missed the field, but I could not get back on a team there. I realised I needed a change, but I wanted to stay in DC if I could. Fornell was visiting Navy Yard about the time I began to look for a way out. I forget why he was there now, but he picked up on it. Told me to call and said there'd be a place for me. It wasn’t anything in particular, it was an opening when I needed one, that’s all. It just happened to work out.” 

“I get it.  It wasn’t so much about ‘where’ so long as the answer was ‘not here’, right?” he said. After all, he’d probably already gained his first pizza-induced pound by the time she’d made that choice. He could have just as easily ended up in Spain, Hawaii or somewhere in Asia if Naples hadn’t been open when he was looking. 

Ziva’s shoulders dropped, looking softer, apparent relief that her honesty had been well-received. 

“You should have seen Gibbs’ reaction when he heard that I was transferring. Never mind that I had been off his team for over a year by then.” She moved on, shifting the focus. “I think they may have seriously fallen out about that for a while. At least, Fornell did not talk to me at all for my first three days there except to tell me that I had better be worth the trouble!” 

Tony laughed - he could hear their old boss’s incredulous voice as clear as day. “Hell, Tobias, first you marry my ex-wife, now you’re stealing my agents! You want my used socks next?” Voicing the thought, complete with a passable imitation, earned a genuine laugh from Ziva and an approving nod from the waitress as she passed by. 

“But the short story is that we both ran away as soon as we could, huh?” he asked as they sobered, taking another long sip of coffee. 

“Mmm-hmm.” She nodded. “You just ran for longer.” 

He tipped his head, conceding the point, but there was no bite in it. Just the truth.

And a lot left unsaid.

Chapter Text

For a moment, neither of them spoke. The silence between them was a little stiff and he waited for her to continue. 

“So, how was Naples?” Ziva asked softly. 

Tony gave a small nod, almost to himself. Yeah. Fair was fair. She’d just offered something remarkably honest considering where they stood right now. He could meet her halfway.

“Turns out, being an agent in another country is pretty much the same as it is here, just in a different language.” He paused, breathing out before continuing. “Honestly, it wasn't the fresh start I was hoping for. Having my own team was great, but so much stayed the same; it never really felt like I got away from it all.” He shrugged and leaned back in his chair. 

Ziva nodded sympathetically, letting his honesty settle but not linger as he had hers. “But the city itself?” 

That was much easier. “Oh, it’s stunning, bellissima! It’s all chaos and charm and just the right amount of old-world elegance. Kind of like a classic film star who’s aged well. So, naturally, I fit right in.” He straightened his cuffs with a flourish, smirking as Ziva deliberately ignored it. 

“It’s hotter in the summer, but the rest of the time, someone set the thermostat to ‘perfect.’ And the food... squisito delizioso stupendo !” He kissed his fingertips enthusiastically. 

Ziva rolled her eyes at his theatrics. “Oh, I can see you enjoyed the food,” she said, hiding a smile behind her coffee cup. 

“Hey!” he exclaimed. He pulled his suit jacket closed. “Eyes up here, thank you, Ms David. Actually,  I never asked, is it still Ms David?” 

She’d kept her name when they’d been married, but she got the gist anyway. “Yes. A few dates. Nothing more,” she said quietly. “You?”

“Nah. Dates here and there, like you said, but no one who stuck around. I think I always knew I was never going to stay there. Didn’t seem worth going through all that again if I was just going to take off one day.” He shrugged. The first few months had been a culture shock adjusting to his new role he’d barely had time to date, and after that, he hadn’t ever felt his heart was quite in it after how dismally it had ended up the last time, not that he’d admit that aloud. 

He changed the subject. “So, we’ve done work and love life updates. Guess that leaves family. How is Director David anyway?” 

Ziva grimaced expressively. “Well, it is a relief that the FBI and Mossad are not so entwined...” she hedged. “It provides some much needed space.” 

He nodded wisely. “Ah, let me guess. Difficult, refuses to accept responsibility for his flaws, and stubborn as hell? But at the same time, he’s your dad, so even when you’re mad, you can’t give up on him entirely. Stop me when I’m getting close.”  

“More or less,” Ziva said with a relieved laugh. “So I take it your father is well, too?”

“How on earth did you guess?” he chuckled. “Yeah, same as always. He, uh, he asked if I was going to see you again when I said I was coming back here.” 

“Oh?” She looked surprised that he’d admitted this. “What did you tell him?” 

He hesitated uncomfortably. The way he’d answered his father’s question had been unequivocal and far from polite. He knew without a doubt that Ziva had been just as unhappy to see him last night as he’d been to see her, but that was no reason to be rude when they were getting on well now. “Let’s just say that Satan’s looking for a scarf and mittens right now and leave it there,” he said diplomatically. 

She laughed it off. “When I told my father we had divorced, he said, 'I told you so.’ Just like that, he did not mince his words. But, if he had asked me if I would find you when you came back, I would have said no, too.” 

“And yet, here we are, two coffees deep and not an ounce of blood spilled,” he said. He gestured between them. 

“Here we are,” Ziva agreed. She drained her cup and checked her watch. “But I should get into the office,” she sighed. She deliberately set the cup aside this time, a silent message that he did not need to order a refill. 

“Let me guess, your band of Misfit Toys will be lost without their fearless leader to guide the way?” he asked, smirking at the way her eyes darkened.

“Do not make me regret lowering my gun last night,” she warned. “I will still shoot you if I have to.” 

Tony scoffed; there was no real threat in her voice. “Nah, you wouldn’t. Too much paperwork.” He looked at the time, too and stood up. “You’re right, though. I gotta get in, too. Fletcher’s a Probie, she’s due for a firearms proficiency assessment today. She’s a great hand to hand fighter and can crack computers almost as well as McGeek, but she’s gonna need all the help she can get on this one.” 

“Martinez, the one who spoke up last night, still flinches before a punch is thrown. But he is basically a human polygraph and calculator in one,” Ziva said. They shared a look, commiserating the trials of subordinates with unbalanced skill sets. 

She stood and slid her bag over her shoulder. “Tony... I did not expect to see you last night, or ever again, if I had my way. But now that we are here, and it is... easier than I thought,” she spoke slowly, choosing her words carefully. “Perhaps we are in a place to talk about what happened? Would you be willing to do that?” 

He was silent for a minute, drumming his fingers on the back of his chair, thinking it over. He hadn’t expected any of this, not her sudden appearance, not the ease with which they’d fallen back into step professionally and definitely not how easy it had been to burn almost half an hour with her, simply talking, finding glimmers of their old banter and being reminded of the things he liked about her. When he boarded the plane to Naples, he’d been certain he would never see her again, reliving everything that went wrong and generally trying to forget her name. Still, it had been, as she said, easier. Neither one of them had any of the spite or venom they’d tried to rekindle the night before, they could be in the same space without starting a fight. If forgetting her wasn’t an option, maybe closure was. 

He heaved a sigh, tightening his grip on the chair to steady himself. “Look, Ziva, I only came back because Vance said you weren’t at NCIS anymore. I didn’t think to ask if you’d stayed in DC, and I probably would have said no if I’d known. I spent the last few years hating you.” 

“I see.” She stiffened, her expression darkening in an instant. “I am sorry I asked,” she said, voice clipped.

Damn it. That wasn’t what he’d meant. 

She turned sharply, stepping around him, and panic rose. He didn’t want this to be the note they’d ended on, not this time. They’d tried the cold, bitter ending and prolonged silent treatment before, and frankly - it sucked. Before she could leave, Tony caught her wrist, not tight, just enough to make her pause. 

“No, wait.” His voice was low, urgent, not letting this be the end of it. “That came out wrong. I just meant…” He ran a hand through his hair, frustrated with himself. “I’ve never talked about it. Not the whole time I was in Naples. I got stuck where we were the day we signed the papers. I’ve only had a few hours to think about you differently.” 

He met her gaze, willing her to believe him. “But yeah, we can try.” 

She studied him for a few seconds, then exhaled, tension easing just slightly. Carefully, she shifted her arm, nudging his hand off without force. “Thank you.”

“But we need to do it before I lose my nerve, okay?” he added. He still wasn’t sure it was a good idea, and with too much thinking time, he knew he’d change his mind. 

She thought this over for a second. “Okay, what was it you said before about Team Leader perks?” she asked, suddenly businesslike. “No one will miss me if I clock out at 12. Can you get out?” 

That was a heck of a lot sooner than he’d expected, but unlike the rush of everything that had happened between them years earlier, it didn’t feel so unmanageable. 

“Yeah,” he said slowly. “The only official thing I’ve got on is Fletch’s assessment; that’s scheduled for 11 and should be done by noon. But I’ll have to stay in the Yard. We’re first on call this week. I’m still the new guy as far as most of the field agents are concerned. Gotta keep up appearances, you know.” It sounded like a lame excuse for an agent as experienced as he was, but a years-long absence had shifted the status quo significantly, and there was a certain amount of proving himself he still had to do. 

Ziva didn’t seem to think so. She pursed her lips and nodded understandingly. “Okay, then I will come to you,” she agreed. “We can find a spot outside, maybe?” 

“Sure, we’ll do lunch. It’s the same coffee guy, and their sandwiches are still good. They even kept that one with all the alfalfa that you used to like on the menu.” The distraction of food was bound to make a conversation like that smoother. He studied her curiously. “What about those ghosts you were talking about last night?” 

“They do not feel as scary as they once did. Not compared to this, anyway.” She shrugged lightly. “I will call you when I park.” She turned towards the exit, and he fell into step beside her. 

“I’ll come down; meet you at security.” He held the door to let her pass first. 

As they stepped outside, Ziva slowed, turning to face him. For a second, it looked like she might say something else, but she only hesitated.

Tony, caught in the pause, shifted his weight. His hand twitched at his side, some half-formed instinct trying to resurface - was he meant to shake her hand? Wave goodbye? Touch her arm? Hug her? The last thought made him flinch; he was surprised to realise he actually wouldn’t have minded that, but he also was pretty sure, given the flicker of uncertainty in her eyes, that was the fastest route to getting his face slammed into the pavement.  

There was a silent pause, and perhaps to fill the space, Ziva lifted her hand - not quite a wave, not quite an invitation. He mirrored her almost unintentionally but hesitated, not knowing where to finish the action. They locked eyes uncomfortably, frozen in place, their hands half-raised like some botched secret handshake or a weird interpretive dance move. 

She exhaled sharply and dropped her hand. “I will call,” she said quickly, adjusting her bag. 

“Yeah. See you then,” he said. He managed to divert his hand to rub the back of his neck, trying to take away the prickle of embarrassment that rose under his collar. “Hope the Oompa Loompas are all on their best behaviour.” 

She rolled her eyes and turned towards her building. “At least mine can all shoot a target!” she called over her shoulder. 

Tony watched her a second longer, waiting until she melded into the rest of the foot traffic. He scrubbed his hand over his face and sighed, not sure if he should laugh or cringe. The last 20 seconds had been a slow, agonising death by humiliation, but it did seem better than a permanent goodbye.

Chapter Text

Despite Tony’s misgivings about how wise it was to catch up with Ziva, less than a day after they’d seen each other again for the first time in 5 years to rehash their brief but disastrous marriage, the closer it got to midday, the more often he found himself humming the Ghostbusters theme song. 

He’d done it so often that Agent Fletcher had kicked him out of her assessment, saying he was a distraction; the assessor had backed her up. She’d reappeared, triumphant, informing him she’d imagined the target was him warbling “I ain’t afraid of no ghost!” 

When Ziva rang, as planned, Tony instructed his team to stay busy and went down to meet her. With an audience this time, they didn’t hesitate a quick, formal handshake and the properly sanctioned use of each other’s surnames before they made their way to the coffee van. 

They split the bill, each paying for their meals and wandered away from the lunchtime crowd, finding a quiet bench to sit on. It was made for three, and they put themselves at each end, their food resting in the space between them. There was quiet for a little while, unwrapping the food and Ziva confirming that the sandwich she’d favoured before was as good as it had always been and then some small talk, how their mornings had gone, that the weather was nicer than the day before. 

Finally, they seemed to become aware they’d stalled long enough, shifting in their seats, unsure where to begin. 

Tony moved restlessly. One of them had to start it, like ripping off a band-aid. “So, look, Ziva,” he said at last, almost too quickly. “I dunno how good I’m going to be at this. You might need to be patient.” He kept his eyes straight ahead, but he felt when she turned to look at him. 

“I can be patient,” she said softly. “But this is not easy for me either, so I need you to do the same.” 

He blew out noisily and brushed a crumb off his knee. “Okay. That I can do,” he said, nodding. “This is gonna be all off the cuff, I never thought we'd get here. But then, I never thought we'd get where we did before, either. So, just, don't shut down like in the cafe, okay? Sometimes I don't hear what I'm saying till it's out of my mouth, so if it's stupid, would you gimme a second chance?” 

“Fair enough. I will not tolerate anything unreasonable though, just because you have asked for some leeway,” she spoke unequivocally. 

Tony shook his head. “No, we already tried unreasonable. Didn't turn out so hot. How about honest, but we don’t fight dirty? Deal?” 

She hummed appreciatively, accepting this compromise. “But, Tony, this is not just about the answers I may want from you. There are things I want to say, too. Things that I do not think you heard the last time I said them.” She was looking ahead again now, her voice had shifted. She fiddled with the wrapping on her sandwich, the paper rustling softly in the pauses. “All I ask is that you listen, too.” 

His stomach tightened at the seriousness in her voice, and he set his lunch aside, no longer hungry. This was not the easy, back-and-forth banter they'd had earlier on or even the aimless but friendly small talk. He still didn't know where they were going with this or if it was the right thing to do, but for the first time in years, it felt like they were giving themselves the chance they hadn’t had back then. If nothing else, that was worth a shot. 

He turned to face her. She glanced at him but looked down - cautious but not dismissive. “I’m listening,” he said. “So... how do we do this?” 

Ziva picked up her sandwich again, her fingers digging into the bread a little, but her voice was calm. “We talk. We listen. And we go from there.”

“Okay, talk, listen and go from there. We got this,” he repeated, more to convince himself. He shifted on the seat again, noticing how hard it was. Maybe they should have gone inside and checked if an office was empty. But they were here now, so there was nothing more for it. “So, ladies first?” he prompted. 

Ziva took another bite and chewed methodically, slowly. Tony could see that, like he had been, she was searching for a starting point. She reached for her tea and sipped, then cleared her throat. “I have been thinking about what you said to me this morning,” she began at last. “About how you were angry with me this whole time.” 

“Yeah,” he acknowledged, drumming his fingers on his knee. “I was, but let’s be real. You weren’t exactly thinking of me using G-rated words, either, were you?”  

“I was not,” she conceded with a tilt of her head. “But, I think, perhaps, it was easier if I stayed angry with you because if I stopped, I would have to look at the things I had done wrong.” 

That sounded uncomfortably familiar. He reached for his coffee, cooling rapidly and took a large gulp. “Yeah, that rings a bell.” He paused, letting the admission settle, recognising it in himself. “I think I did the same thing. Stayed pissed so I wouldn’t have to think too hard about...” He gestured vaguely. “How much I messed up, too.” 

Ziva set her tea down and met his eyes. “I realised that I have spent a long time convincing myself that I was not to blame, that I did everything I could. You were not easy to live with, and I told myself that it only went so wrong because you were not willing to make it work.” 

For a second, he had an urge to bite back, to point out all the things that she had done that had made living together at first hard, then miserable, but he caught himself. She was not being accusatory, simply honest. In a rush, he remembered all the times he could have reached out and instead prodded harder, looking for a response, waiting for her to come to him, instead of meeting her where she was at. All the jokes he’d cracked instead of recognising how unhappy she was. 

“That’s funny. I did the opposite. Decided it blew up because you didn’t want it enough. And then at some point, it just became the story I told myself.” He paused and shrugged, with a dry laugh. “I guess we were both wrong, but hey, at least we were equally unfair about it,” he added wryly.

Ziva’s mouth twisted into the smallest smile. “Well, then we are even on that front,” she agreed dryly, her tone suggesting it was not the triumph it might have been. She sighed and pushed her hair back. “You should know, Tony. I did not want things to end. Until we fought... I always hoped we would find our way back to what we had at the beginning.” 

“Yeah,” he said, before he realised what he was saying. Softer than he intended, throat suddenly dry. “So did I.” 

He stared at his shoes for a minute, the weight of those words sinking in. This was new. He’d been regretting the whole thing. The marriage, the breakdown. All of it. No details, no introspection, just writing it off as one colossal mistake. But now, with the new perspective that he hadn’t been blameless, Ziva’s confession that she had wanted to stop the entire disastrous avalanche before it had happened... it felt different. 

For the first time, he realised he did not regret that it happened, but that it had ended. 

“Shit, Ziva,” he breathed, staggered by the new sense of understanding. How he’d twisted things until his memory of events had changed. “I forgot. Before it all went to hell, before we stopped talking. Before the fight. I wanted to fix it. I just thought you didn’t. And by the end, when we were both stuck just waiting to actually get divorced... it was so bad I convinced myself that I never did either.”  

It had been easier that way. To push the blame, to focus on bitterness and anger and resentment. An instinctive self defense mechanism, because accepting the alternative was so much harder: h e’d lost something, someone , he’d never wanted to be without. And that hurt like hell. 

His head sank, catching his forehead on the heels of his palms and staring at his knees, his breathing ragged. 

“Are you alright?” Ziva asked softly. 

He thought about all the resentment and regret he’d held, how long he’d tried to act like the whole ill-fated affair had never happened. All the time he’d wasted trying to forget her entirely and gotten absolutely nowhere.

He nodded, still leaning into his hands. “Yeah, I was so angry with you that I just... I forgot that I missed you. It’s all catching up with me.” He exhaled shakily, pressing the heels of his palms into his eyes, trying to steady himself. 

Ziva didn’t speak. She didn’t offer comfort. Didn’t rush to fill the quiet the way he always had. She just waited, letting him think it through and just sit with this new realisation. 

Her hand fell onto the bench close to his leg, not actually making contact, but a sign that she was there with him. “Me too,” she confessed in a whisper. 

In the corner of his eye, he caught her swiping her thumb under her bottom lashes. He stayed down a second longer, giving her a moment to compose herself. She had never liked to let him see her cry - even through the whole vicious fight that last evening, she’d stayed dry eyed. 

He straightened up and let out a short, uneven laugh, shaking his head. “God. I spent years being angry, thinking we were doomed from the start. But we weren’t, were we? We just... we let it rot. And then we burned it down.” 

Ziva kept her eyes trained far off in the distance. “No. At least not at the start. That was good.” Her voice was steady and calm, she believed what she was saying. “Worth fighting for.” 

“Not fighting over,” he put in ruefully. 

She hummed softly in agreement. “But that fight...” she started, but the words seemed to catch, her facial expression pained. “We were not coming back from that.”

“No, we weren’t,” he agreed. Even now, he knew that whatever hope he’d had they could get better had burned that night along with everything else. Some of the words she’d flung at him still hurt, and some of the things he said, well... It was a miracle she was still here talking to him. “I didn’t mean it you know, what I said then,” he added quickly. 

Ziva raised one shoulder, a sort of half shrug. “I think you did. At the very least, you believed them in that moment, even if you no longer feel that way,” she said evenly, not forgiveness, but understanding. “Not all of it was uncalled for. I meant most of what I said then, too.” 

“Yeah, okay, you’re right there,” he agreed. The memory of it stung, but after reframing his own behaviour, the harsh words he’d received now felt much less uncalled for. “I deserved it. And we were both out for blood by then. I guess, neither of us were our best selves that night.”

Ziva didn’t offer anything, just nodded quietly in agreement.

“But still, some of it...” he sighed, still off balance from the new revelation that it wasn’t anger, but sadness that he felt most of all. “Some of it I wish I could take back.” 

“Yes,” Ziva whispered, she turned her head towards him a little. “Me, too.” 

With that, some more of the distance between them began to close. Tony knew they could never really take it back, but at the same time, it already felt a little better.

Chapter Text

The Navy Yard hummed around them, people coming and going - a couple of desk jockeys jogged past the bench, making the most of their lunch breaks to get some exercise. Tony meanwhile hadn’t moved, still sitting beside Ziva. They were still slow and careful in the way they spoke, but the tone had shifted, easier, less tense. 

“God,” Tony huffed a disbelieving almost-laugh. “Listen to us, agreeing on something for a change. Where was all this harmonious accord when we needed it?” 

“Buried under everything else, I suppose,” she replied. “All of the silent treatment, and the distance.” 

Tony leaned back against the bench. “And the damn stubborn pride, can’t forget that.” 

“I think that was all you,” she replied quickly. 

He turned his head, narrowing his eyes. That one felt a little beyond the “honest but don’t fight dirty” rule they’d established. “Excuse me?” 

Ziva waited, letting the moment hang just long enough for him to actually feel offended then she tilted her head towards him, lips pursed in a smirk, he hadn’t seen that dimple in years. “Did you really think I was serious?” 

He snorted. “Of course not.” She raised an eyebrow silently. “Yeah, fine for a second there,” he grumbled.  

She hummed, not quite denying it. “Well, if the glue sticks...” she trailed off. 

He knew that one was deliberate, he’d corrected her on that years ago. “Oh it sticks,” he said dryly. “But don’t pretend you weren’t just as bad.” 

Another hum, vaguer, noncommittal. But she didn’t argue, either. They lapsed into quiet, finishing the last bites of their food, comfortable in the silence.

“You’re right though,” he said, balling up the paper bag slowly when he was done. “It was good at the beginning.”  

Ziva nodded, brushing the crumbs off her lap. “It really was. I was happy. We were happy. Until...” her voice wavered and she leaned back too, lifting her eyes to the sky. 

“Until.” Tony repeated the word like it carried all the weight neither of them could put into full sentences. They both knew what it meant. The thing neither of them had been ready for. The way they’d unravelled afterwards. “Do you ever think about...?”

She flinched, looking uncomfortable, but answered anyway. “I cannot help it sometimes, but mostly, I try not to.” He noticed she’d begun twisting the paper napkin tightly in her fingers. “Sometimes I wonder if that makes me a bad person. Do you think about it?”

“Not really,” he said hesitantly. After agreeing on so much already, this felt far more fraught. This was the point where they’d begun to diverge. “It was over too quickly. I hadn’t even realised it was real. Mostly, I just wondered what you wanted from me in all that.” 

The change was so immediate, the air around him becoming icy in such a rush he almost looked up to check the sky hadn’t clouded over. Ziva’s fists clenched in her lap, crushing the napkin and her breath caught on a sob. 

“I wanted you !” she snapped suddenly, her voice cracking. 

Tony swallowed, his sandwich turning to lead in his stomach. “I was there...” It sounded pathetic even as he spoke. He already knew where this was going. 

Her head snapped to him, eyes blazing. Almost as fierce as the night they’d finally called it quits, “I -” she seemed to realise they were still in public and caught herself. “Faux bravado, and drowning your sorrows is not being there , Tony. If there is anything you need to realise you did wrong, it is that,” she said, her voice low, dangerous. 

Tony winced, even though he’d seen that missile coming before it was launched. His frustration bubbled anyway. “And what? Doing a million rounds with a punching bag and freezing me out was right?” he retorted. “I was trying to give you what I thought you wanted, I was wrong. So what - am I supposed to apologise for not reading your mind now?” 

“No!” she spat. “Don’t you see? You cannot fix something like that. You were supposed to be there. To feel it with me. Not trying to make decisions or push solutions on me before I was ready for them. I did not need a doctor. I needed my husband, and you weren’t there. ”

He scoffed, angry, impatient. “Where were you in all this, Ziva? Down in Translation, mad at me for something I didn’t even know I was screwing up?” 

Ziva shook her head, cold, angry, on the verge of shutting him out again. “You would have known if you’d looked.” 

“And if you’d looked -” Then, in a sharp breath, Tony stopped, his eyes flicking to Ziva’s clenched fists. Something inside him pulled taut - they were about to tear into each other like they had before. “Jesus... we’re doing it again,” he muttered, quieter now.

This was exactly what had happened last time. They’d exploded, shouted, said things they couldn’t take back. The kind of fight that shattered everything in a matter of seconds. He couldn’t do that again.

He scrubbed his hand over his face, voice was rough, shaky. “No, it’s not going down like this, Ziva. Not like last time.”

Ziva didn’t answer immediately. Her chest rose and fell, her eyes still blazing, but there was something in the way she looked at him. She was close to the edge, but something held her back. Finally, she nodded as if she’d reached the same conclusion he had. 

“No.” Her voice was steady now. “No more.”

Tony’s eyes locked onto hers. That unspoken understanding was back - neither of them wanted this to go to the same place. The tension was still there, but it wasn’t the same. He took a breath, realizing how tightly he’d been wound, how close to snapping they both had been.

“Can I start over?” he asked softly. “Or is this what that waitress was saying about changing our destination?” 

Ziva hesitated, then tilted her head, considering. “I do want to talk about it,” she said at last. “Just... not like that.” She turned towards him with her whole body, shifting in her seat. 

Tony mirrored her, moving too, their knees angled toward each other. He forced himself to slow down, to let what he had to say land right. “I’m sorry, Zi, for all of it,” he said, even and measured. For the first time in a very long time, it wasn’t an automatic reflex or a sarcastic non-apology. He meant it. “I could see you were scared, but I thought if I was okay then you would be too. So I tried to fake it. But, you needed more time, I see that now. I really did think I was helping, and then when I wasn’t... well, we already know that part.” 

Ziva’s fingers curled around the napkin again, but more softly, grief instead of anger. "I know that you meant well,” she murmured. “But I never told you what I wanted - maybe because I didn’t even know myself. I expected the impossible of you and left you nothing to work with. I’m sorry.” Her eyes flicked down, guilty. “And then when it didn’t help... I pushed you away and...” She waved her hand loosely. 

“And we all know how that played out,” he finished wryly. 

“We do.” Ziva agreed. Their smiles were brief, sardonic. 

“We really fucked it up, huh?” 

“We did,” she agreed. “But, we are here now. Perhaps there is something in that.” 

“Yeah, we are.” He still wasn’t sure how they had gone from pointing guns to reliving the breakdown of their relationship. His throat felt tight and he would have killed for another coffee, but he wasn’t willing to risk losing this moment to get up and get another one for anything. Somehow, in this rollercoaster half hour, they’d come closer to understanding each other than they’d managed in the entire time since those two pink lines had changed everything.  

“When you told me, I was really scared,” he admitted. “It was way too soon.” 

Ziva’s fingers clenched, her shoulders rising just a little. Then, after a moment, she exhaled. “I was, too,” she said, voice softer now. “I didn’t want to be, it is something everyone is supposed to want... but I was.”

He stretched, propping his elbow on the back of the bench, hand hanging down loosely. He tapped against the wood with his knuckles, stalling. Gathering the nerve to keep talking. “But, when it was over, I was also really, really sad.”

Ziva swallowed, not bothering to hide the swell of tears in her eyes. “So was I.” 

It was the first time either one of them had said that in the other’s hearing. Slowly, hesitantly, like testing the temperature of bath water, she slid her hand beneath his where it hung over the backrest, curling her fingers around his.

It was tentative; the first time in over five years that either of them had truly reached for the other. It was light enough that he could pull away if he wanted, no demands made. Just a simple request for connection. 

He didn’t look down, didn’t let himself overthink it. He just let his hand turn, just enough to press back. She fitted against his palm exactly like she used to. As he squeezed back, there was the answer he should have given her in the first place: 

I’m right here. 

Right then, for the first time since it all fell apart, they were on the same page.

“So, what now?” he asked, voice still rough. 

“Now,” she said, with a long exhale, “we talk about the rest of it.”

Chapter Text

The crowd thinned out as lunch hour ended, but Tony and Ziva stayed put. Talking became easier as they backtracked through the memories. Sometimes, the way they remembered a situation was so different, it felt like they were telling separate stories. Some of the words were heavy, others sad, and plenty angry, but they stuck it out, holding to their agreement of being honest but not unkind. 

Partway through, they broke to get new drinks and tried the cookies - some of the harder topics needed something to sweeten them. Tony felt lighter, like he’d actually been heard. Judging by the ease in Ziva’s posture, he’d done well at listening, too. The understanding between them was clearer, sharper, in a way it had never been before.

Ziva sighed and stretched her legs out in front of her. “You do realise Tony, that by normal standards, the time we were together would have been nothing more than a bad relationship, a slip on their radar?”

“Blip, Ziva,” he laughed, more at ease now. “Not slip. But go on then, define ‘normal.’”

“You know, what I mean.” She rummaged in the bags between them and found one last cookie. “They go on dates, out to dinner, perhaps they take a trip. Meet the other’s parents. Here.” She snapped the cookie in half and offered him a piece.

He took it without hesitation, surprised at how easy it felt to slide back into this. “We did all that,” he pointed out. “We had dinner at the Barclay as the Raniers. We’ve been to 3 different continents and about 12 different states. I know your father hates me, but mine always loved you.” 

Ziva scoffed and reached over to swat his shoulder lightly. “Most of that was for work!” 

“My point stands.” He shrugged and bit the cookie, aiming for the part with the most chocolate chips. “But I hear you, we really skipped the whole normal thing. Rushed in head first. Got married right away then boom - first fight and we get divorced. I should email Guinness World Records and see if we’re worthy of a listing.” 

Ziva laughed, quiet but genuine. “We never did things by halves.” There was no regret in her voice. They’d reached a point of being able to laugh at the absurdity a little while earlier. 

“Well, you know me,” he grinned. “All or nothing.” 

She nodded, smiling. “I know, it is one of the things I liked most about you.” 

He pretended to choke on the last bite of the cookie. “Liked, past tense?” he asked, looking wounded. 

Ziva wrinkled her nose but didn’t look exasperated. “Like,” she corrected with an exaggerated sigh, the corner of her mouth twitching up. “I like that about you.”

His smile grew smug. He hadn’t set out that afternoon to wrangle a genuine compliment out of Ziva, but now that he had, it wasn’t a bad feeling. “Good to know. You’re not too bad, either.” 

“Thanks,” she huffed sarcastically before setting into her cookie. 

The lull that followed was comfortable and easy, Tony picked up Ziva’s discarded cup, rolling it between his palms, watching the last bits of ice slosh around in the bottom of what had been iced tea but was now diluted beyond recognition. Ziva leaned back, resting her head, also quiet. 

He sighed and stretched his arm along the back of the bench, his fingertips landing just a few inches from her curls. “It feels weird, doesn’t it?” Comfortable or not, he still found silence difficult to sit with for too long. 

“What does?” When she turned to look at him, the ends of her hair brushed across his knuckles. 

“This.” He gestured between them. “Not hating each other.” 

She chuckled, tipping her face back to the sky. “Very weird,” she said. “But also, nice.” 

“Yeah, nice,” he agreed, assuming the same position. The sun was warm for a change, and the company was good, he could almost forget he was at work. 

“Tony!” McGee’s voice broke the spell before he had a chance to get too relaxed. “There you are! Ziva, hi!” Tony sat up as McGee jogged towards them over the grass. He stopped short, obviously surprised at what he’d stumbled on. 

“Good to see you, Tim.” Ziva stood, smiling and reached to hug and kiss him on the cheek. Tony watched with interest as he returned the gesture and they exchanged a few brief sentences of catch up; they really had kept in touch while he’d been gone. It was weird to realise how much of his old life she’d kept in a way. 

“You too, I didn’t think you’d be - never mind,” McGee cut himself off, turning his attention to Tony.  “Where have you been all day?” 

He waved his hand along the bench like he was presenting the grand prize on a game show. “Right here. Hanson knew where I was if I was needed.” He whipped his phone out of his pocket. “See? No calls.” With the time on the screen, Tony also realised how long they’d been out there, “lunch” had suddenly become 4 pm. He couldn’t remember the last time he and Ziva had willingly occupied the same space for that long. 

McGee rolled his eyes. “That’s because she - along with Fletcher - has Agent Cooper locked in the photocopy room.” 

Any other day, he would have laughed till he cried over that one, but today the timing couldn’t have been more inconvenient. Tony blew out through his nose and closed his eyes. “I’m on it,” he groaned.  

“Good, I’ve gotta run.” McGee glanced curiously at the trash stacked between them. “Not gonna ask,” he commented, shaking his head with a look that suggested he would very much like to ask. “See you, Ziva. Tony, get your team in line.” He gave Ziva a little wave and disappeared in the direction he’d come from. 

Tony sighed and stood up, helping Ziva to gather the empty cups and bags. 

“Is it strange that McGee outranks you now?” she asked. 

Tony fell into step beside her as they headed for the nearest trash can. “Very!” he said emphatically. “But it suits him, he does a good job. Speaking of, I gotta go do mine.” He tossed the load he carried and brushed his hands down. 

“Okay,” Ziva said slowly, a flicker of reluctance in her voice. “Wait... doesn’t that door lock from the inside?” She tilted her head, eyes glinting. “At least, it used to...” she trailed off, her meaning unmistakable.

Tony’s grin was instant. “Oh yeah, it still does. Always wondered how we never got caught.” Their eyes met - uncharted territory, a whole category of shared history they hadn’t even touched on yet, and for once, no baggage attached, those memories were exclusively good. 

“But when Hanson and Fletcher get going... if you thought McGee and I were bad with pranks, these two are like long-lost evil twins.” He sighed, already resigned. “Better go rescue him, I guess. Guy’s like 6 foot 3 and 200 pound of pure muscle and those girls walk all over him. Well, I’ll see you round, maybe?”

Ziva nodded, but didn’t step away yet, instead she shifted her weight slightly in a way that told Tony she wasn’t quite done. 

“We should talk again. Soon,” she said. Tony understood this wasn’t a casual suggestion. They’d covered a lot of ground today, but resolving a year of hostility and misunderstanding needed more than a single afternoon to unpack properly. 

“Yeah, you got it,” he agreed. “Dinner?” The word was out before he’d fully thought it through.  None of it had been as bad as he was expecting, but he was still surprised by how much he wanted to make sure they didn’t end up with another years-long silence. 

Ziva kept her face neutral, not letting him know what she thought of the abrupt invitation and shook her head. “No. We rushed everything last time. Let’s try normal. Give ourselves both time to think.”

He nodded, slowly. “Yeah, yeah good point.” 

Another pause, this one felt a little heavier. Even yesterday morning, he would have bet money that this moment, that this calm accord between them would never have happened. That the distance between them was permanent, and that even if by some weird stroke of fate, they’d been thrown together again she wouldn’t have wanted to talk to him. 

But here they were, and Ziva was waiting like there was still something else she expected. 

“This went better than I thought it would,” he admitted. 

She bobbed her head, a small smile starting to form. “Much better.” 

“I didn’t think we’d ever...” He gestured between them, trying to find words for it all. The honesty, the closure, the way things didn’t hurt so much anymore. “You know,” he added, hoping she got the picture. 

She did. “I know,” she replied.. She exhaled, some of that hesitation easing in her shoulders. “But I’m glad we did... Thank you,” she added with a note of unexpected sincerity. 

He took a half step back, surprised. “What for?” 

“For listening, for talking. For saying sorry.” She shifted her weight, her eyes serious. “We did not always get it right before. But today it feels like we did.” 

Tony let that sit for a minute, thinking it over. They’d managed all of the things they’d needed, just 5 years too late. Instead of wondering what it would have felt like to find that back then, it just felt good that it had happened now. 

“Yeah, I think we did,” he said softly. “Thanks for not making it weird.” 

Confusion flashed across her face for a second. “It was still weird.” 

He shrugged. “Yeah, but that was all me.” 

Ziva rolled her eyes but didn’t argue. His phone rang - Cooper - he really had to get up there. 

Another beat, and then exactly like before, he half-lifted a hand only to realise she was doing exactly the same thing. That same, painfully awkward farewell they’d managed that morning. They dropped their hands quickly, but rather than a mutual cringe they just shook their heads, smirking at each other. 

He laughed in spite of himself. “Well, that was smooth.” 

Ziva scoffed too, amusement lighting her eyes. “We are really bad at this.” 

“Awful,” he declared. “Twice in one day, what are the odds?” 

Then, without another word, she stepped in and wrapped her arms around him. Without hesitation, he closed his arms around her too; a brief, friendly hug. It wasn’t awkward or shy, it wasn’t romantic, but like so much that had passed between them already, it just felt right. 

Ziva pulled away after a second and patted his chest, that gesture all too familiar. “Go on. Rescue your agent,” she said softly. “And call me, soon.” There was something unreadable in her eyes, but it wasn’t shutting him out, just keeping something to herself. He could live with that.

Tony exhaled, rocking back on his heels. “Yeah. Okay.”

She smiled briefly, lifted her hand in a proper wave, then turned first, walking away without looking back.

Tony watched her go, absently rubbing a hand over his chin. He wasn’t sure what he’d expected from today, maybe nothing at all. Certainly not this.

His phone buzzed again. Cooper. Right. Work.

With a shake of his head, he turned and headed inside.

Chapter Text

‘Soon’ was entirely too nebulous a concept as far as Tony was concerned. Did Ziva mean he was supposed to call that night or in a week’s time? There was always the three day rule when it came to dating - but that definitely hadn’t been a date. He decided to split the difference and called the next evening. 

He’d figured she would just ignore it if she thought it was too soon, and before he dialled, spent five minutes crafting the perfect casual-but-not-disinterested message to leave when she inevitably sent him to voicemail. 

“Tony, hi. I cannot talk for long.”

Completely unprepared for her to actually pick up, it took him a minute to say anything at all. “Oh, bad time?”

“No. Well, a little. I just need to be quick.” 

“Right. Well, calling soon, as requested. You know, to catch up again. Coffee maybe? Or just talk, whatever works.” Now he knew it was definitely not a date; he’d never been so damn clumsy proposing one of those. 

“I can’t.”  

“Oh.” That landed harder than he expected. He’d known better than to think everything was suddenly fixed, but after the way they left things with Ziva asking him to call again, he didn’t see that coming. Maybe he’d read too much into it.

“No, not like that.” There was a muffled voice in the background, then Ziva again, brisk and all business. “Yes, I am coming. Two minutes.” She came back to him. “There is a big case coming up, we need to escort a witness, protection detail, I will be away the rest of the week. Paris, actually.”

Relief flickered through him, subtle but real. This wasn’t her shutting him out - it was just bad timing.

“Ah, le gai Paris, très bien!” he declared, putting on his best accent. “So, which of your lucky minions gets to share a room with you?” They’d been to Paris on witness protection once too, almost their last case together before Ziva had left the team for Translation. 

“ Agent Symons will be coming, and we have separate rooms,” she said, stressing the first word. “Better funded agency - remember?” 

He rolled his eyes even though she couldn’t see him. The single room they’d shared in Paris had nothing to do with their married status and everything to do with NCIS having tight purse strings. “Yeah, yeah, don’t rub it in. When are you back?” 

“Thursday morning, I hope. But Symons is waiting, we have to leave.”

“Okay... got your gum and magazines? You always forget those.” 

“Yes, I have them.” He could hear the smile in her voice. “I have to run, I will call you when I get back.” 

“Okay.” He paused, something coming back from long ago. “Nesyia tova.” It had been years since he’d spoken Hebrew, he hoped it was right. 

There was a quiet, pleased little hum on the end of the line. “Text me if you want. Adieu, Tony.”

At first, Tony wasn’t sure what he should send. Ziva’s words sounded like texting her was an option, but there’d been something in her voice that was a little bit more direct, hopeful even. He went to work the next day, still casting around for ideas. It couldn’t be too formal or distant, they were doing better than that, but at the same time it couldn’t seem too friendly because they weren’t exactly there, either. But then, she had asked, so it felt like he had to come up with a message she’d want to get. 

Finally, he settled on the one thing they’d seemed to bond over, even before they’d begun to patch up the worst of the damage between them - work. He sent a photo of the view from his seat, looking diagonally across the bullpen. There was an owl sitting on the corner of Hanson’s desk, a stuffed toy with dangling legs. 

Tony (8.39am)

“Hanson got a new owl. I think it’s watching me.” 

He hit send before he had too much of a chance to think it over. A reply came almost at once:

Ziva (8.42am)

“Someone needs to keep an eye on you.” 

Well, that was quick. He did the maths, he didn’t know exactly when her flight had been, but she’d probably been on the ground for 3 or 4 hours or already. The new question of how soon to reply arose, did he have to? How long should he wait? He didn’t have anything else to say, really so maybe just a check in would do. 

Tony (8.47am)

“Flight ok? What’s on the schedule?” 

Ziva (8.51am)

“Symons gets airsick. I know that now. Embassy now & dinner after. Talk later.” 

Okay, not a bad start. He’d let her get back in touch when she was free. He stuffed his phone away just as his team arrived, and the day took over. They picked up a case not long after, and between evidence runs and paperwork, his phone stayed mostly untouched.

There were a couple more messages overnight, nothing in-depth, just passing exchanges. A dry comment from her about the embassy, his half-asleep reply before crashing for the night. Nothing groundbreaking, but it felt nicer than he expected to be in contact again. 

He woke to a picture somewhere along the Seine titled “Morning Run” and another one later, coffee and a croissant. He sent with a photo of his own coffee, in the distinctive mugs from the cafe they’d worked at a few days earlier, not a sweetener packet in sight. Ziva replied that she was glad he was developing taste and said she would be getting her witness in a few hours.

Then, for the rest of the day, there was nothing. No message, no check-in. It was the kind of quiet that made him wonder if something had gone wrong. Maybe the witness was delayed, or she’d gotten pulled into a meeting. Maybe she just didn’t want to talk that much.

And then, just as he was starting to think he’d imagined it all, his phone buzzed again.

Ziva (8.25pm)

“Tell me something funny. Anything. I need it.” 

Tony (8.30pm) 

“The owl has a name now. Reginald. Reggie for short. Abby tricked another visiting forensic team with her farting hippo. Someone super glued Coop’s stapler shut. The evil twins are staying silent, but my money’s on Georgie.” 

Ziva (8.34pm)

“A stapler is better than McGee’s keyboard! Which one is Georgie? Reggie is a good name - sounds wise.”

Tony (8.38pm)

“Hey! Gluing McGeek to his keyboard made you smile. More than once. Georgie is Fletcher, the probie with bad aim. Hanson, keeper of owls is Frida, but she will kill you if you call her that. The butt of all jokes is Cooper J Cooper III - that’s not a joke. Kind of late, isn’t it?”

Ziva (8.41pm)

“Today has been a very long month. I will say that much.” 

Tony (8.45pm)

“Red eye flights are always rough. Got your witness?” 

Ziva (8.50pm) 

“No. Don’t ask, I can’t tell you. Staying on. Bedtime. Will be in touch.” 

Tony (8.52pm) 

“Okay, sleep well.” 

Tony replied, almost out of habit as he frowned at Ziva’s last message. It certainly wasn’t the first time a so-called straightforward case had gotten complex, he knew how that felt. But that she couldn’t elaborate rather than wouldn’t was interesting. It meant a higher, or at least different security clearance to him. For the first time in a very long time, there was a pang of worry for her safety. Although if her response time at the warehouse the other day had been anything to go by, she could still take care of herself just fine. 

“Bad news, Tony?” 

Tony glanced up to see McGee in front of his desk. 

“What? No.” He stuffed his phone away quickly. 

McGee didn’t buy it. “You were glaring at your phone like it personally insulted you just now.” His eyes narrowed and his arms crossed. “Been hearing from Ziva much?” he asked, significantly. 

Tony didn’t know what he thought of it, never mind explaining it to overly observant, ex-Probies who now technically outranked him. He leaned back in his chair, feigning nonchalance. “Every now and then,” he admitted with a casual shrug.

“And?” McGee prompted. 

Tony already regretted engaging, but he was here now. “And what?” he asked innocently. 

“I read that report from the other day, and I know you two didn’t expect to see each other.” Mcgee stepped closer and lowered his voice. “Nice job making it sound like you did, by the way. But we had no idea the Bureau was going to turn up, you couldn’t have known either.” 

He waved his hand dismissively. “Yeah, well we figured it was easier on everyone if we just left that part out.” 

“Fair enough.” McGee shrugged too. He gestured to the pocket where Tony had put his phone. “But texting, having lunch together? That’s not exactly in either of your repertoires.” 

“Sure it is, we used to text all the time, you know - before.” He waved vaguely, not knowing how to finish that sentence now. A few days ago it would have ended with something that laid the blame squarely at Ziva’s feet, but that didn’t quite feel truthful anymore. 

“Before you guys got divorced you mean?” McGee said. 

Tony rolled his eyes. “Yes, thank you, Tim. Really needed that reminder.”

McGee ignored his sarcasm. “So what changed?”

Tony sighed, running his hand over his face. He really didn’t want to get into it. “I dunno. She’s in Paris on a case. It just got complex. Guess she needs a way to kill time, we’re just chatting some. Comparing notes on our agents, you know. Normal Team Leader stuff.” 

“O-kay,” McGee said slowly, clearly not buying it. 

Tony picked up a pen and began twirling it between his fingers. “When did ‘not gonna ask’ suddenly turn into coming downstairs and interrogating me, anyway?” 

“Since I stayed friends with Ziva as well as you.” McGee reminded him. “You didn’t have the monopoly on bitter regrets and pretending it didn’t happen, Tony. It’s just weird, that’s all.” 

“No, what’s weird is you standing here asking me questions about it.” He flipped the pen again. “You want transcripts or something? So you can analyse what we’re talking about?” 

McGee held up his hands innocently. “Whoa, touchy. I’ll leave the analysing  to you,” he said. 

Tony shook his head, clicking the pen and tossing it onto the desk. “Nothing to analyse,” he said flatly. 

Chapter Text

There may have been nothing to analyse, but there were more text exchanges as Ziva’s three-day trip began to stretch until it doubled. Still nothing of consequence, he didn’t ask about the case, and she didn’t offer information, but there were more photos of croissants and morning coffees, commentary on Hanson’s owls, and a running tally of pranks played on Cooper. 

By day 7, it was almost second nature to update her on the smaller happenings at the office in between the case they’d picked up. 

Tony (11.15am)

“Taking a break from interrogation. This guy gives nothing away. Could use Martinez and his human polygraph skills right now.” 

Ziva (11.20am)

“I’m sure Fornell would lend him to you if you ask nicely.” 

Tony (11.22am)

“No way, the only FBI agent I’m liaising with from now on is you.” 

Ziva (11.25am) 

“I am touched. Any new owls?” 

Tony (11.29am)

“Not that I can see. Reggie is still staring me down though.” 

Ziva (11.32am) 

“Then stop disappointing him. Go crack your suspect. Remember the Gibbs glare.” 

Tony (11.35am)

“You were always better at that. That murderous glint comes so naturally to you. Better go though.”

Ziva (11.39am) 

“Okay. Good luck.”  

Tony (2.12pm) 

“Cooper found a scrap of paper in his desk that just says ‘soon’. We’re all waiting for the punchline.” 

Tony (3.26pm) 

“Suspect caved at last. The stare worked. Reggie looks less judgmental now. 

Tony (4.03pm)

“Cooper borrowed one of those extendable arm things from Abby and is using it to open all his drawers.” 

Tony (5.18pm)

“Coop got home unscathed. Think Hanson’s just messing with him. He works better when he’s on edge so I’ll let it slide for now.

 

Ziva (5.43pm)

“Nice work.” 

Tony (5.46pm)

“That was almost a full sentence. I’m honoured.” 

Ziva (5.52pm)

“The shit has hit the pan. May go quiet. I will be in touch.” 

Tony (5.55pm)

“It’s fan. But I get it. Be safe.” 

Ziva (5.57pm) 

“Always.” 

Tony stared at his phone a moment longer, his thumb hovering over the screen. Then, with a short breath, he set it down.

He knew it shouldn’t bother him, not after everything. Hell, he was used to silence. They’d lasted 5 years without so much as getting CC’d in the same group email. The only problem was now, he wasn’t used to it anymore. 

This felt different. This wasn’t the good riddance, no regrets kind of silence from before. This was her, in the thick of something, and him, stuck here, waiting. And caring . That part was new. Or maybe just resurfaced.

He ran a hand over his face and sighed. He’d barely had time to sit with the thought before footsteps approached

Tony straightened, assuming what he hoped was a neutral expression. Whatever was coming next, he wasn’t about to let himself look like a guy who’d been sitting here thinking about his ex-wife. Even if he had been.

“Hey,” McGee began. “Need you to look over these preliminary reports on...” He paused, frowning slightly. “What’s up?” 

So much for playing it cool. 

Tony took the files and flipped them open, scanning without really reading. “Cybertalk, looks like a job for Fletcher.” 

“How’s Ziva?” McGee propped himself on the corner of the desk and folded his arms. No beating around the bush this time. “I saw you from the catwalk, you’ve been texting for almost a quarter hour.” 

He shrugged. “Never said it was Ziva.” 

“You didn’t deny it either,” McGee pointed out. 

Tony heaved a sigh. “Like I said last time. We’re talking. Realised maybe we owed each other an apology. You always said I was bad at addressing the past. You should be proud, Tim, your personal growth campaign finally paid off.”

“Mmm-hmm,” McGee hummed unconvinced. “Right. And you’re just... addressing the past?”

“Sure. Talking it through. Cleansing the chakras. Whatever.” He shrugged and leaned back in his chair. 

McGee snorted expressively. “Yeah, cause that’s always been your thing.”

Tony flipped another page in the file. “Listen, just because my self-reflection doesn’t come with a side of quinoa and crystals doesn’t mean I’m not doing it.”

“Right,” he drew out the word with a slow, skeptical nod. “This weird mood you’re in wouldn’t have anything to do with her case going sideways, would it?” 

Tony’s head snapped up. “Oh. She told you?” he asked, trying to sound more casual than his body language felt. 

“Still her friend, remember?” McGee nodded, smirking. “Also friends in high places. Vance knows too.” He pointed in the general direction of the upper floors. 

“She’ll be fine,” Tony said automatically, trying to convince himself. “When does she not have things covered?” 

“Exactly,” McGee agreed. “There’s nothing for us to worry about. It’s not even our jurisdiction.” He tapped the desk lightly and stood, stretching. “Well, I’m out of here. Got a date with Delilah tonight. It’s getting serious.”

“Nice one,” Tony replied on autopilot. But as McGee turned to leave, he added, “Tim-”

McGee glanced back. Tony met his gaze, serious now.

“The second we get so much as a whisper that she needs help,” McGee said, like he’d already known what Tony was about to ask, “we greenlight every reasonable measure to get in there and get her out, no matter what Fornell has to say about it. We’ll have half the agency in Paris if we need to. She might not be here anymore, but she’s still one of us.”

Tony exhaled, nodding. “Okay.”

McGee left, and Tony leaned back in his chair, staring at the ceiling for a beat before shaking it off. He had to get back to work.

Tony didn’t check his phone obsessively. That would have been ridiculous. But he did wonder how long it would be till Ziva texted him again. 

The first day was easy enough. Work, reports, interrogations. Cooper was slowly going to pieces over the note in his desk, which was endlessly entertaining. The silence wasn’t comfortable, but it was familiar. 

The second day was harder. 

He did the maths. It had been almost two weeks since that night at the warehouse. After years of nothing she’d dropped back into his life and without even thinking about it, their connection had returned. Maybe not the same as before, but there was still that constant pull that led them to always check in, to know where the other was, and worry incessantly when they didn’t. He wasn’t sure how it had happened, but those quick text exchanges with her had become as much a part of his routine as was the detour to the cafe underneath her yoga studio in the mornings. The coffee there really was that good. The waitress with the pierced eyebrow began looking at him with unasked questions and a knowing expression. He ignored her. 

He touched base with McGee. No official news either. 

He stopped leaving his phone on silent overnight. Paris was 5 hours ahead after all, she’d be starting her day and he’d still be asleep. He still wasn’t a morning person, but he wouldn’t have minded being woken up for that.  

By the third day of quiet, she’d been gone 10 days in total. He hated waiting. She’d said she would be in touch. She hadn’t said when. He told himself it was fine. That she was fine. That this silence wasn’t like the last one. But it still ate at him more than he liked to acknowledge. 

Somewhere towards the end of the day he caved. He’d already stayed as busy as he possibly could. He’d cooked instead of ordering takeout and even washed the dishes right after he’d eaten. He’d watched a game on TV, but had no idea of the outcome. Even if she wouldn’t answer, he needed to say something. 

Tony (9.17pm) 

“Let me know if you need a Very Very Special Agent to come to your rescue. Pretty sure I can still speak French, even if I just spent 5 years in Naples. 

Then, to stop himself waiting on tenterhooks for a reply he went and took a shower. There was a new message when he emerged. 

Ziva (9.28pm) 

“Stand down. Home soon, no need for heroics. But a ride from the airport would be nice.”

Tony rubbed his damp hair with a towel and grinned.

Tony (9.32pm) 

“What, the FBI doesn’t spring for chauffeurs now? So much for better funding! File a complaint.”  

Then, nothing. He tossed his phone onto the bed and made a show of not looking at it. He finished drying himself off and got dressed. He picked up a magazine, flipped through it idly and put it back down. He turned the TV on to check the score of the game he hadn’t watched. The numbers still didn’t register. 

It had only been a few minutes, but she hadn’t replied. It was getting too long. 

She’d asked directly, and he’d made a joke. He’d met her seriousness with humour - again. Maybe that was the problem. He always defaulted to humour when he wasn’t sure how to handle the situation. Maybe she didn’t want jokes, maybe she was still in a serious frame of mind. He thought of all the times they’d left things unsaid because of this.

He flicked the TV off again and reached for his phone. He had to fix this. His thumb hovered, on the verge of typing out an apology when- 

Ziva (9.47pm) 

“I just... missed you.” 

Tony (9.48pm)

“I missed you too.” 

Chapter Text

Two days later, Flight 8482 from Paris was late due to some issue on the ground and had been left circling the airport waiting for clearance. When it had finally landed - 90 minutes after scheduled and with two other flights following closely behind -  the arrivals hall was full to overflowing. Families reunited with exclamations and hugs, exhausted professionals made a beeline for the nearest exit, and bewildered tourists staggered around looking for information desks and connecting shuttles. 

Tony didn’t notice any of it. He simply found a convenient column to lean on and kept his eyes trained on the one too-small entrance as it released the passengers in a long endless flood. He didn’t need to call out, wave, or even crane his neck to see her. The moment Ziva stepped through the doors, they found each other, eyes locking with that same unwavering accuracy from years ago.  

He waited as she diverted, cutting through the crowd towards him. A quick zigzag, effortlessly weaving her way around people. They didn’t maintain eye contact the whole time - that would have been weird - but every few seconds, she glanced up, adjusting her heading, always drawing closer, always heading straight for him.

He didn’t even register the way he raised his arms as she came to a halt in front of him, but she didn’t hesitate either, answering the gesture as she stepped in, one arm around his neck, her cheek brushing against his. Two weeks was all it had taken to go from pointing guns to being glad to see each other. She sagged momentarily - relief or exhaustion probably - letting the hug linger for a second longer. 

It wasn’t the kind of greeting that turned heads, there was no dramatic bag falling to the floor in slow motion and running into each other’s arms. Just two friends happy to see each other after time apart. There were hundreds of other people around them similarly occupied at that very moment - but it felt good. 

Then she stepped back, hitching her bag up on her shoulder a little higher. 

“Hi,” she said. She was tired, that much was obvious, but smiled all the same. 

“Hey,” Tony grinned. “Welcome home. You all done playing the international woman of mystery now?” 

“Well until the next case with a mysteriously disappearing witness,” she said with a sigh.  

They turned as one, moving toward the exit. “Do we need to go through baggage claim?” 

Ziva shook her head. “You know me. I travel light.” She raised her shoulder, indicating the backpack. “I have already collected my weapon.” 

Tony reached, and she relinquished it without argument. “Light?” he asked incredulously. All the cool chivalry was gone as his arm dropped suddenly, not prepared for how much she’d stuffed into it. She must have used every ounce of her weight allowance. “Did you bring the Eiffel Tower home with you?” He hoisted it back up with an ungainly grunt. 

“And to think you wanted to come rescue me, you cannot even manage a single backpack!” She laughed. “Come on, if you make it to the car without complaining, I’ll pay for the parking. Lead the way.” 

Tony shut up, shouldered the load a little more firmly and increased his pace. 

“So, where to?” he asked once they’d gotten back on the road. 

Ziva sighed as though summoning great patience. “Typically, a ride from the airport means taking someone back to their house,” she explained, leaning heavily on the sarcasm. She stashed the parking receipt in her purse and sighed. “But, I would appreciate it if we could stop at the grocery store first. I was gone far longer than I expected, everything in the fridge will have spoiled by now.” 

“Sure,” he agreed easily. His own cupboards were beginning to look dismal anyway. “But I still don’t know where you live anymore. So, which exit?” 

She hesitated for a second. “Take Connecticut Avenue to Dupont Circle” she paused for a second, laughed drylt and then added, “I think you know it.” 

Know it? He drove it daily. He turned his head fully towards her for a second. “No way.” 

“Yes.” She nodded, a slight, teasing lift at the corner of her mouth. “Two buildings down from where we... you? Do you still live there?”

“I leased it while I was in Naples, yeah. Like I said, I always figured I’d come back eventually.” He turned back to the road. “Moved in again when I got back. So the whole time when we were at each other’s throats...?”

“No, no.” She shook her head, and Tony caught the motion in his peripheral vision, her hair bouncing as she shifted. “I stayed with Abby for a little and then got a place in Columbia Heights. But a colleague of mine was transferring last Christmas and their lease was open. I knew you were overseas, so I took it.”

“Huh,” he drummed his fingers on the steering wheel, distracted for a moment by her answer. “I can’t believe you moved two doors down. We’ve practically been neighbors for a month. You never thought to tell me?”

“Two weeks, technically, I just spent the last two in Paris,” she said lightly. She sounded like it was no big deal, and he almost envied how effortlessly she could detach. “But when should I have mentioned it? When we were pointing our weapons at each other, or talking out exactly why we broke up? I also did not know that you had moved back in there.”

Tony chuckled, more to himself than to her. “Makes sense, I guess. Still. It’s a small world.”

“Smaller than we like to admit, I think,” Ziva said, her voice quieter now, tinged with exhaustion. She yawned, stretching her arms above her head, her whole body sagging a little against the seat. She’d been on the go for so long, he could see the weariness finally catching up with her.

Tony glanced over at her, noting the slight slump of her shoulders. He reached for the cup holder, pulling out a half-empty bottle of water, and offered it to her. “Here, I know how bad flying dehydrates you.”

Ziva didn’t take it immediately, her gaze drifting out the window, lost in the movement of the city around them. When she finally grabbed the bottle, her hand moved sluggishly, like she was too tired to care. 

“Symons was airsick again. I should have spiked his lunch with Dramamine,” she said, almost as if talking to herself.

One hand still on the wheel, Tony rummaged in the centre console, pulling out a pair of earbud headphones. “Why don’t you stick these in and zone out. I’ll wake you when we get to the store.” 

“The radio is fine, just don’t expect me to talk.” She waved him away and turned towards the window a little, resting her head on her arm as she propped it on the door. 

Tony nodded, glancing back at the road. The evening rush hour was starting, the traffic building as they passed another onramp, but he kept a steady pace, weaving in and out of traffic without thinking much about it. His fingers drummed lightly against the wheel, and he felt a calmness settle over him, a sort of quiet familiarity in the air. The drive felt like it could stretch on forever, and he didn’t mind at all.

Tony left Ziva alone until he realised she was buying individual ingredients at the store. 

“You’re not actually going to cook tonight, are you?” He leaned over the cart, catching the bag of spinach leaves before they landed. 

She paused, an onion in her hand. “I need to eat tonight, so yes,” she replied, looking at him like he’d just asked if the sky was blue. 

“And I need a vintage Corvette Stingray, but here we are,” he quipped. He tossed the package in, where it landed on a tray of chicken breast. “But I wasn’t asking if you needed to eat, I was asking if you were seriously planning to cook after 10 days of crime fighting in Paris, an 8-hour flight that got delayed and with jetlag?” 

Ziva rolled her eyes. “I was not planning on a five-course meal. Just some pasta.” 

“Well, what about takeout?” He grabbed bread as he passed, he was out anyway, then without thinking, reached for the seeded kind he remembered from when the kitchen had been a shared space. “There’s this great Italian place on -” 

“I am not going to pass out in the frypan.” The onion went in the cart almost defiantly. Garlic followed.  

He pushed the child seat open, laying the bread in there to stop it getting crushed. “Yeah, but even if you get new everything, I bet your fridge is going to stink. You’ve been gone so long it’s forgotten what you look like at this point.” 

“And that is why I am going to clean it when I get home,” she hip checked him out of the way and took control of the cart, heading towards the dry goods. “Then I will make myself dinner and sleep for the next week. Or until I am next due at the office, anyway.” 

He increased his pace to keep up with her. “And when is that? 0800 tomorrow after a 5-mile run I’m betting. You can’t be up till midnight ditching sour milk and cheese that’s probably growing a new lifeform. Just order in.” 

Ziva wheeled around suddenly, her lips pressed into a thin line, a flicker of frustration in her eyes. “I am not a child, Tony. I am perfectly capable of going home, cleaning out my fridge and then making dinner,” she snapped. “And I do not have to be in the office until 12!” 

“Whoa.” Tony took half a step back, raising his hands in submission. “Don’t bite my head off, I’m just saying you’re running on fumes. I’m just trying to help.” 

“Exactly!” She whipped a box of pasta into the cart so hard he cringed, expecting it to split. “You are trying to fix it again when I do not need you to! My wellbeing is not even your concern anymore!” 

Oh, shit. This was familiar. This was not just her exhaustion talking, but her frustration from five years earlier. He was jumping in to solve a problem she never asked him to fix, at the same time he could tell something was wrong and had no idea what, so he was just taking stabs in the dark at what he thought might work. 

“Yeah, I am, aren’t I?” he admitted. “I can see you’re dead on your feet, Zi, that’s all.” 

Ziva didn’t respond, just folded her arms and stared at the shelf, as if she could will it to end the conversation for them. He had a sudden vision of his next sentence being lost in an avalanche of rigatoni packets, brought down by the ire in her gaze alone. 

“But you know,” he added, carefully - very carefully - “you haven’t really told me what you need right now, either.” 

Her fingers twitched against her bicep, but she didn’t argue.

“Is there anything you’d like me to do? Or do you just want me to shut up till you’re done and take you home?” he asked, softly. 

After a second, her posture softened a little and she let out a slow breath. “I am exhausted. I have been living on restaurant food or whatever you can make in a hotel room microwave for 10 days. I just... I just want something simple and homemade. The kind of thing I can eat on the couch in my pyjamas.” 

“Okay yeah, that’s usually when I call for a pizza. But I get it now.” He nodded and glanced in the cart. “So, chicken, mushrooms, spinach, onions, garlic... that’s gonna need some kind of cheese. Dairy aisle, here we come.” 

“Thank you,” Ziva sighed, setting off after him. 

They made it to the register in peace a few minutes later and began sorting out their items on the belt. 

Tony exhaled, rolling his shoulders as Ziva adjusted the groceries with precise, almost mechanical movements. She looked bone-tired, dark circles smudging the skin beneath her eyes, but at least she wasn’t bristling anymore. It was a fine line, knowing when to push and when to back off. He’d never quite mastered it with her. 

Still, he hadn’t made it worse this time. Small victories.

“You know,” he murmured in an undertone as the cashier called for a price check on the pasta. “I was gonna make something when I got back anyway.” 

“What?” Ziva looked up from the impulse buy rack. She tossed a new pack of gum onto the conveyor belt. 

“Just saying, I’m cooking too. Even picked up a few new tricks in Naples.” He shrugged, keeping his tone light. “Figure that would count as homemade, even if you don’t cook.”

A chocolate bar was added to the pile. “Is that an invitation?” she asked warily. 

“Only if you want it to be.”

“I do not need you to cook for me.” She handed her card to the cashier, her voice firm but not sharp.

Tony shrugged. “I know that. Just saying that I was gonna be cooking anyway, so if you really didn’t want to, I’d be happy to relocate my culinary skills to your kitchen instead. Not telling you, offering.” 

She shot him a sideways glance as she gathered her bags. “I have seen what you do in the kitchen! I am not trusting you in mine!” 

“Okay, mine then,” he countered easily. “Even got the TV and couch you asked for. And I won’t judge you if you’re in your jammies. Plus it’s walking distance so you can crawl back into your own bed when you’re sick of me.”

Ziva hesitated, fingers drumming against the edge of the cart. “But what about my fridge?”

Tony smirked. “Do it in the morning. We both know you’ll still be up at sunrise anyway. Or, I mean, do it tonight if you really have to... that’s a suggestion, by the way, not an instruction.”

That earned him a snort, quiet but real. “Only if you stop pretending you’re not offering solutions.”

Tony smirked. Okay, maybe he was, just in a way that she could accept. They both knew each other too well to truly fall for the ruse. 

“Suggestions, Ziva.” He fished some cash out of his wallet. “Is that a yes?” 

“Yes, it’s a yes,” she sighed. “I cannot believe I just let my ex-husband talk me into letting him cook dinner,” she added offhand, to the cashier. 

The older woman looked them both up and down. “Well, he’s just as crazy as you then. Way I heard it, he offered.” She turned to Tony, handing him his change and a receipt. “You better hope that’s the best dang meal you ever made in your life, Romeo,” she informed him.

Tony tucked the receipt into his pocket, shooting Ziva a sideways look as they collected the bags. “No pressure or anything,” he said dryly.

Ziva smirked, adjusting her grip on the groceries. “None at all.” 

They got back in the car, heading toward his place - their place, once. Five years since she’d last walked through that door, five years since they’d been anything resembling a “we.”

Tony exhaled, shaking his head to himself. Maybe they were crazy. But it also didn’t feel that strange.

Chapter Text

Tony regretted his fit of chivalry - insisting on carrying both loads of groceries and her backpack - up to his apartment, when he realised he couldn’t unlock the door. He stood there awkwardly for a second, trying to shuffle the paper sacks in his arms enough to reach into his pocket. 

“I’ve got it...” he grunted, trying to shift the load to his elbow. 

Ziva brushed past him lightly. He barely noticed, too busy watching the tomatoes try and make a break for it. 

“Tony,” she said softly. 

If he squeezed the bags a little tighter, he could almost move his wrist now. “Just a sec...” he muttered through gritted teeth.

“Tony,” she repeated more insistently. 

His wrist spasmed painfully and he had to give up. “What?” he sighed. 

A soft click . The door swung open.

He looked up, surprised. “How? Oh.”

Ziva smirked, his keys dangling from her fingertips. 

The admiration bubbled out before he could temper it. “God, you’re good,” he chuckled in a low tone. He hadn’t even felt her lift them from his pocket. 

Ziva’s smirk deepened. “I’ve had practice.” She took a step back, her gaze flicking briefly to the door, then back to him. Her voice softened, a thread of respect in her tone. “After you.”

It took a second before Tony understood. There was a quiet distance in her stance, she wasn’t home here anymore. He was the host now. 

“Right,” he stirred himself into action, a loaf of bread shifting precariously. “Come in.” 

Still focused on not creating vegetable soup on his entryway floor, he heard her follow a pace behind and close the door, then pause as she stopped to take her shoes off. He made it into the kitchen and got everything down on the bench before he was able to look at her again. She stood just inside the room, taking everything in quietly.

Tony had gotten new furniture when he’d returned. The upheaval of landing a case almost immediately had meant some boxes still sat in front of the built-in shelves, waiting to be sorted through. Still, despite the changes, the room felt familiar. The layout hadn’t shifted. The piano still stood in its corner. The second coat hook was still empty - it had always been hers. The couch where they’d shared bottles of wine and late-night movies still stood along the same wall. The dining table, where they’d once faced each other across a silent, cold expanse after that awful fight, remained where it had always been. Both pieces were sleeker and more modern now, but the newness was not enough to stop the rush of memories of what it had looked like - felt like - before. 

Ziva didn’t speak, but he could see her eyes trace the room, and there was a faint tension in her posture. She turned slowly, shrugging off her coat and putting it on the same hook. It felt like a strange time jump, two moments of the past and present overlapping. There was something odd about how she seemed to fit into the space, like she was still a part of it but not quite.

“You got new things,” she said at last. “They look nice.” 

He nodded. “Yeah, thanks. I’m still unpacking, though. I think I got a whole 24 hours to myself before I was summoned to work. Do you want some water? Or there’s wine in the...” 

“No, thank you,” she cut him off. “I am far too tired to drink.” She approached the counter slowly, her socked feet silent on the hardwood. She set the keys down with a quiet rattle. 

He started pulling random items out from one of the bags, just to keep his hands busy. She moved too, choosing the ones - cookies, ketchup, peanut butter - that were obviously not for dinner and automatically storing them in the same places they’d always been. 

“Are you okay?” he asked, watching the stiff, almost formal way she moved. 

“It is stranger than I expected to be here again.” She looked at the bag of coffee in her hand. “And yet...” she trailed off, picking up the canister on the counter meaningfully. She hadn’t needed to ask where any of it went. She still knew her way around the place like she’d never left. 

“It feels like yesterday,” he said softly. “Yeah, I get it. Look, if you’re not comfortable, no hard feelings. I’ll walk you home instead, no questions.” 

She was silent, peering into the can, judging the space for the new product. Almost automatically, she reached up, found a coffee mug and poured the scraps into it, before delving into a drawer for scissors and neatly emptying the new bag in. The remnants went back in on top to be used first, and the bag was discarded swiftly. She rinsed the mug at the sink, setting it in the rack to dry. 

“I will stay,” she said finally, quietly decisive. 

“Good choice,” he said, trying to lighten his tone. “At least my fridge doesn’t smell like a crime scene.” 

She ignored him and moved her entire bag of groceries to the fridge to keep cool till she took it home, then returned for the milk he’d bought. Tony understood she was doing it to stay busy, just like he was, although it made him restless just to watch her. 

“Look, if you need something to do, there’s a shelf waiting for books over there. But why don’t you go and take a shower instead?” Her eyes flicked sideways, doubtfully. “I promise I’ll stay up this end of the house. There’s still a gun taped to the back of the toilet if I don’t.” 

“Godfather style,” she murmured, a hint of a smile starting to come back. 

“Exactly,” he chuckled. “But go. You just got off a long haul flight and slept sitting up in the car. Your neck will thank you.” As much as anything else, he figured she needed the alone time to process how weird it felt being back in this apartment together as he did. 

She hesitated for a minute before hefting her backpack up again “Thank you. But be warned, I will not be polite if you burn dinner.” 

“I won’t burn a thing.” He raised the box of pasta as though swearing an oath. “Scout’s honour. Oh, I used the towel already there but the clean ones are...” 

“Left side of the linen closet. I know.” She turned, her feet padding softly down the hallway. 

“Wait!” she called back a second later. “McGee was the Boy Scout, not you!” 

He smirked. “I guess you’ll just have to trust me then!”

There was a brief peal of laughter, and the bathroom door slammed shut. It always had - it stuck on the top of the frame, no matter how careful you were. Over time, that sound had become punctuation to their silences, saying everything they wouldn’t.

Tony chuckled as the pipes groaned and the water started running. He couldn’t remember the last time a door was slammed in that house and sounded friendly.

Chapter Text

By the time Tony added the pasta into the boiling water, the sauce was simmering away nicely. Originally his plan had been for something light, tomato, basil, the barest hint of spice, but seeing Ziva’s shopping, he’d changed pace to meet her; rich and creamy with plenty of garlic, even more parmesan. The ultimate comfort food. 

The taps had stopped running in the bathroom a while earlier, replaced by the sound of a hairdryer. It must have been in her bag, he didn’t have one. Never mind McGee and his Boy Scout history, she was prepared for anything. 

He propped himself on one elbow, stirring the sauce idly, more out of habit than necessity. 

This was still weird, both the setup and how comfortable it felt. While he’d been in Naples, he’d wondered - briefly - what would have happened if they’d come face to face again. At first, he’d been right: the tension, the quick barbs, the guns (although when he’d pictured that, he’d told himself he was exaggerating). He figured in a best-case scenario they might have settled into a kind of calm, distant truce, at worst that they would have fled to opposite ends of the planet again. What he hadn’t expected was how quickly they would shed all of that for... whatever this was now. Easy conversation, honesty, laughter, daily text updates - missing each other.

Part of him still felt like it should have been harder. Or colder. Or just more... dramatic. But mostly he was just grateful because even if he still had no idea what they were doing now, it felt better than it had before. 

“You are going to burn it.” 

Tony jumped and looked up, startled to find Ziva had reappeared - baggy shirt, well-worn pants and loose curls. She stood there with a smirk, clearly amused by just how far he’d spaced out, still stirring the sauce idly. 

“Pfft, I gave you my word.” He blinked back into the moment, testing the pasta for that perfect al dente. Another minute, two at most. “You look good. Better, I mean.”

Ziva nodded, arms loosely folded over herself, visibly more at ease. “The hot water helped. And that new shower head.” She paused with an appreciative sigh. “I might not have taken so long to decide if you mentioned you had that.”

He snorted, scooping a ladle of pasta water into the sauce. “Yeah, well, I didn't know how to bring that up without sounding like a weirdo. Figured you’d find out on your own.” He ducked into the lower cabinet, rummaging for the strainer. 

“I can help if you need something,” she offered. 

The strainer rattled into the sink. “Nah, I’ve got it all under control. You save your energy for tackling your fridge tomorrow. The remote is on the coffee table. Go channel surf till you find something worth watching and I’ll bring the food over when it’s done.”

But she was already at the cabinet, pulling down two bowls and setting them gently on the counter. “I’ll take you up on that wine now too, if it’s still an option.”

He poured the pasta into the strainer, lost momentarily in the rush of steam. “Sure. There’s a bottle of red, bottom shelf. Something like this should have a white, but I know you.” She had always preferred reds with dinner, no matter the menu. 

Ziva paused with a thoughtful hum halfway between kitchen and pantry. “Just this once, I will trust you.”

She opened the fridge instead and pulled out the bottle of Riesling - proving she knew him just as well. Wine pairings mattered to him, as did the storage. Reds were always at room temperature. Whites chilled. And never Chardonnay - he hated those.

He drizzled olive oil over the pasta and watched as she found glasses with the same well-practised ease. “You’re not even going to pretend to ask which drawer the corkscrew’s in?” he asked.

“I already checked. It is still in the one with the vegetable peeler and the small tongs you never use. Why do you still have them this many years later?” She nudged the drawer shut with her hip. 

“One, they’re new. I bought them when I moved back.” He went back to stirring the sauce. “Two. I used those last week.”

Ziva raised an eyebrow as she set the glasses down beside the stove. “For what?”

“I dropped my phone behind the bed,” he muttered, stirring with unnecessary focus.

She didn’t bother trying to hide her laugh. “I will be on the couch.” Wine and glasses in hand, she disappeared to the living room. 

“If you choose a musical, I’ll kick you out,” he warned with a smirk, listening to the noise in the background as she flicked through the stations. She let it linger twice as long on something where the cast was singing, waiting until he glanced over, his eyes narrowed, before she laughed and kept scrolling. 

“You're still a menace,” he called, shaking the pan one last time and then lowering the heat.

“I am hungry,” she replied pointedly. “And you are slow.”

“That’s because I’m creating art . There’s a process. A rhythm. You can’t rush greatness.”

“You are melting cheese!”

Tony turned and pointed his spoon in her direction. “Blending . I am blending cheese into the sauce. Melting is what happens when you leave string cheese in a hot car.”

To prove his point. Tony added the noodles into the sauce, stirring until each strand was well coated and glossy. He gave the pan one last, casual toss, knowing full well she was watching him from the corner of her eye. The pasta behaved beautifully, swooping up in a clean arc and settling back down without spilling a drop. 

“Now, you are just showing off!” Ziva snorted and continued changing channels. 

He began dividing the food into the bowls she’d already laid out. “Presentation matters, Ziva,” he reminded her. “We eat with our eyes first.” 

She choked on a laugh. “Will I need a blindfold?” she asked.

Tony paused, looked at the pasta, then at her. “For that, you’re not getting dessert.”

Ziva raised her glass in mock salute, eyes dancing. “A small price to pay.”

He shook his head, still smiling, and turned toward the living room, bowls in hand.

“Bon appétit ,” he declared, handing her a bowl, complete with an artistic sprinkle of parmesan and chopped parsley. 

He sat on the other end of the couch, an empty cushion between them, much like the bench where they’d had lunch. 

“Thank you,” Ziva handed him a wine glass, then tipped hers towards him, a silent, companionable cheers .

They settled to eating, not paying attention to the TV. She’d landed on a documentary. Some odd caterpillar species in a tiny country in Asia that neither of them were really interested in. It seemed like a strange choice at first, but Tony realised she’d chosen it because it was safe. Unlike many movies, it would come without potential reminders or accidental triggers of still-loaded topics, and the narrator - it wasn’t Attenborough, he knew that much - had a pleasant, soothing drone, just enough to take the edge off the silence. 

Ziva didn’t offer any feedback, good or bad, about the food, but the way she was clearing her bowl said enough. It was exactly what she needed. He was pleased with it too, the garlic to parmesan ratio was perfect. It wasn’t quite restaurant fancy, but it was just far enough into the properly good zone to be more than just quick and filling. Satisfying without too much fanfare. 

He found himself watching her out of the corner of his eye more than the screen. The curve of her hand on the bowl, the way she twirled her fork through the strands, even the way she tucked her feet under her as she sat. It was all so familiar, it would have been easy to believe this was back when she lived here, or even what might still have been if they’d handled things better. 

The camera zoomed in on the caterpillar’s skin beginning to split down the back, sticky and slow and somehow worse in high definition. 

“Yeesh,” he groaned, reaching for the wine bottle to top up his drink. He tipped it towards Ziva in invitation and she held her glass out. 

Ziva shrugged. “I have seen worse. Thank you.” She raised the glass and sipped. “And you are right, the white wine is nicer.”

“I won’t say I told you so...” he trailed off deliberately, scraping this last bite of food from the bowl. 

“But you told me so. I know,” she said, shaking her head. “This was delicious, by the way. Thank you. Much better than I remember your cooking!” 

Tony looked over, eyebrows raised in mock offence. “Wow. A compliment and a dig in one breath. You’ve still got it.”

She sipped her wine, feigning innocence. “You burned rice, Tony,” she reminded him. He had. Two weeks in, the apartment had smelled for three days.  

Tony groaned, tipping his head back against the couch. “You still remember that? Come on, it was one time.” He leaned forward to set his empty bowl on the table. “Once! And you didn’t help by yelling at me in Hebrew. ”

“What I was saying in English may have gotten us evicted.” She leaned over, depositing her bowl on the table, too. Then she rotated, stretching her legs out on the couch towards him. “So, you never told me the rest of the story about Cooper and that note in his desk.” 

Tony turned, throwing his arm along the back and bending his inside knee up onto the cushion so he faced her. “Oh yeah,” he chuckled, remembering. “It turned out to be nothing at all.” 

“What do you mean, nothing?” she asked, raising an eyebrow at him as she sipped her wine. 

“I mean, Coop shredded some documents at his desk the day he found it. He must have dropped some of the paper. Yesterday morning, he discovered there were scraps in that Cornell mug he keeps pens in, too. And then Fletch found one jammed in the wheel of his desk chair. When he found the words stakeout and reimbursement, he realised what had happened.” He shrugged, laughing. “He did it all to himself. He’s the team muscle, but sometimes he makes us all wonder how he survives the world without a minder.” 

Ziva threw back her head and laughed, deep from her soul. A genuine, unguarded laugh, sudden and delighted; the kind he hadn’t heard from her in years. 

Tony leaned back, wine glass tilted in his hand, watching her with a slow-spreading grin. He didn’t say anything, just took her in. 

When her laughter finally subsided, she looked over and caught him staring. “What?” she asked.

“Nothing,” he said, still smiling. “You just... looked like yourself for a second. Like the you I used to know.” He shrugged. “I guess I forgot how beautiful you were.” 

It sounded cliched, but he meant it. Italy had been full of pretty women, but it had taken him a full year before he’d stopped comparing each one he met to her. He’d liked a few, and even dated some of them. But five seconds of this - her laugh, her smile, totally at ease - and none of them even came close. 

Her gaze held him for a moment longer than necessary as though she was reading his mind. Then, with a small shake of her head, she stretched her leg a little further and gave his shin a nudge with her foot. 

“You are being sentimental.” It wasn’t a warning, or even a callout, simply an observation. 

“Sue me,” he chuckled. 

She pretended to give this some thought for a second then shrugged as though dismissing it. “We already tried that, you went to Naples and we did not speak for five years. I think this is better.” She drained her glass and set it down, waving her hand ‘no’ when he reached for the bottle. 

“Now who’s being sentimental?” he retorted. Ziva scoffed slightly and stretched again, a playful kick rather than a nudge. He caught her foot lightly as she made contact. “Hey, those are dangerous weapons, Ms David.” 

Ziva smirked, but didn’t pull her foot away. She let it rest there against his shin for a moment, then nudged him again, gentler this time. Less of a kick, more... presence.

Tony’s fingers, still curved around her foot, relaxed. His thumb traced a slow, absent arc along her ankle, barely there. Neither of them commented on it.

The caterpillar had finished its transformation on screen, what was left of its old skin discarded behind it. The camera panned to the cocoon beginning to form, the narrator’s voice dropping into something soft and reverent.

“Hey, Zi?” he said in a low voice. “I like this better, too.” 

Ziva gave a quiet, contented hum and settled deeper into the couch, her second foot finding its way up to meet the first. He didn’t stop her. Just shifted a little to make room and rested his hand across both, warm and easy.

There wasn’t really anything left to say. The documentary played on in the background as the moth began to emerge; gentle narration, soft music, flickers of light from the screen.

The credits rolled. Her feet were still tucked beneath his hand.

Chapter Text

Although Ziva’s place was only two buildings down, they walked slowly, stretching out the last minutes of the evening together. It had been so easy and comfortable. All the things they’d enjoyed about being together before, and Tony found himself reluctant to let it end. They’d lingered in silence through the full length of the credits, and took another 10 minutes to admit it was time to think about calling it a night. Then she stalled by insisting she help wipe up after cooking and he had let her, though he secretly wondered if she had been doing the same thing - trying to drag out the time a little longer.

“You know,” he said casually. “When I called you before you flew out, to organise another time to talk about everything, this wasn’t what I had in mind.” 

Beside him, Ziva laughed softly in acknowledgement. “No. And we never even talked about it anyway!” 

He shrugged. “You seemed tired, I figured I should let you off the hook just this once.” 

“How generous!” she shot back, sarcastic but playful. “But coffee again, soon, yes?” 

He nodded, slowing his pace a little more as they passed the building between his and hers. “Yeah, real soon.” 

She matched his stride. “Will you call me?” 

“You can call me, you know,” he said, turning to flash her a grin. 

Ziva shot him a sidelong look, her gaze flicking to his face before settling ahead. “True. But I also know how old-fashioned you are about that sort of thing.”

“That doesn't mean a woman can't make the first move,” he paused, smiling at the way she glanced at him, amusement and curiosity combined. “Alright, alright, I’ll call. Soon. Definitely soon,” he agreed, knowing full well he’d probably text her goodnight when he got back to his own apartment. 

“Hmm,” she hummed almost to herself. “This is beginning to feel like a date, Tony.” 

He paused mid-step. “Whoa, no.” Sure, he’d noticed the main ingredients were all there, a quiet night in, wine, a home-cooked dinner, but even with the quiet ease and prolonged physical contact, he hadn’t been thinking about it like that at all. Just that it had felt nice to be back in that space with her again. “I wasn’t trying to... not like that. This was just friends doing each other a favour, right?”  

“I meant this has been more like a date than anything we did before.” She paused, too, and turned to face him. “Not that this was an actual date. Just all of this tonight, slow, quiet, getting to know each other again, it has felt like a date.” 

“I guess so,” he agreed. 

“You never walked me home before, for one thing,” she said softly, tipping her face towards him. 

“Well, I didn’t need to.” He huffed a laugh. They’d gone from the plane to his apartment to the courthouse. “We really did just go from zero to sixty didn’t we? Skipped the foreplay and just went straight to marriage. What were we thinking?” 

Ziva chuckled, low in her throat, that smoky sound that he knew all too well meant she’d had a thought that was not suitable for airing in public. “Oh, there was nothing wrong with the foreplay,” she assured, turning back towards her building and nudging him to follow along with her shoulder as she did. 

“Good to know. There can always be more foreplay if you’re interested,” he added playfully. It wasn’t a real offer, more out of habit. He scored a snort and a backhand to his chest in response.  

Then she sighed, growing serious again. “But I suppose, we were so focused on surviving what had happened, it was easier to move forward than to reflect on it. I saw a therapist for a while after we broke up actually, not just about our marriage, but also about Somalia,” she continued. “I learned a lot about what we did and how we behaved. In part, wrapping ourselves up in each other was a distraction from all of the trauma from that summer in the camp.” 

“Yeah,” he breathed, running a hand through his hair. “It was. I shouldn’t have done that to you, Zi.” 

“I did it to you, too,” she said, her voice soft. “We just did not know it at the time.” She slid closer, so her arm brushed his, companionable and understanding. 

Rendered concrete became brownstone, they’d reached her building. 

“So, two doors down, huh?” He paused at the bottom of the stairs. “You really live here? You’re not going to just pretend until I go back inside and then call a cab?” 

She glanced over her shoulder, beckoning him up the stairs in her wake. “I really live here.” She turned to the keypad, punched a few buttons and the door unlocked with a sharp click. Instead of stepping inside, she shut it again and turned back towards him. “See?” 

He shook his head, chuckling. “You just seemed so sick of this place at the end, I figured you’d never want to come back here.” 

“No, that was your apartment, and you,” she said honestly. 

“Ouch,” he scoffed, not really meaning it. He’d felt the same at the time as well. “I get it though.” He lowered her bag and held it out to her. 

Ziva took it and paused, holding it for a second, her eyes drifting from the door to him. For a moment, the easy flow of their conversation stalled, her lips pressing together in that thoughtful way she did when she was weighing something. “Do you want to come up?” she asked.  

“No, if this isn’t a date, I definitely don’t come upstairs.” He shook his head. He’d enjoyed the slow pace as much as she had. “But maybe you can make me dinner next time instead?” he added with a hopeful grin. 

“You just said it was not a date!” she burst out, half laughing, half scolding. 

He shrugged with a disarming smile. “It’s not. Just think of it as returning the favour,” he reasoned. “We both agreed we need to talk more, and you got the benefit of my new and improved culinary talents this evening. It seems only fair you put in some of the work too.” 

She pursed her lips thoughtfully, considering this. “Okay,” she said, a reluctant smile tugging at the corner of her mouth. “But it will have to wait till the weekend. I am going to be swamped with debriefings and meetings the rest of the week. You do not just lose a witness in the middle of Paris and have them defect to the defence without hours of explanation.” 

So that was why she’d been delayed, her silence and tense texts made sense now. “They can’t hold you accountable for the guy’s change of heart, can they?” 

Ziva snorted. “They will try!” She blew out a breath as though letting it go. “But I am not going to let tomorrow ruin what was a very nice evening, thank you. And for picking me up, it was good to see you again.” 

“You too. Best not-date I’ve ever had,” he said, his voice warm. “So, I’ll call you then?”

Her hand landed softly on his elbow. “Text me, I want updates on the owl collection. I will need something to get me through the next two days. I will call and let you know when to come over.” 

“Ooh, so you’ll do the inviting now, huh?” he teased in a sing-songy voice. “How very 21st century of you, Ms David.” 

Ziva rolled her eyes. “You were the one who said I could call earlier... and now this? You are impossible to please!” 

“And you knew this going in,” he chuckled. “But you never answered me before, we are friends again, right?” 

She smiled, nodding. “Yes, we are friends,” she confirmed. “Now I have a fridge to clean. I’ll see you soon.” 

The hug was expected, but the way her lips brushed his cheek in a soft, brief kiss was not.

“Good night, Tony,” she murmured, stepping back toward the door. “And thank you again.”

He brushed his fingers across his cheek absentmindedly, still a little stunned. “Anytime, Ziva. Good night.”

He lingered for a moment, still processing the unexpected shift, watching as she crossed the lobby and reached the stairs. Before his feet hit the pavement again, his phone was already in hand, drafting a text about how the cleaner had knocked over Hanson’s owl statues the day before. 

His phone chimed with her reply before he even got back to his apartment.

Chapter Text

The days passed quickly enough as far as Tony was concerned. There were new leads to chase and a puzzle to solve, it was what he did best. He saw Ziva briefly the second morning, an overlap at the coffee shop she’d introduced him to. It was a little out of his way, but it really was the best coffee in DC. She had a colleague with her, so their meeting had been brief and formal, although the pierced waitress shot him a wink and a smile. 

Ziva called on Saturday morning to confirm he’d still come for dinner. He was halfway through unpacking the box he’d mentioned the other night, thanks to the reminder in her good morning text. 

“Just checking you had not made other plans,” she began. Casual, like she hadn’t been thinking about it in the interim. 

“I’m still free if you are,” he replied, just as casually. “Where are you?” He could hear noise in the background. 

“I just finished yoga. I am going to the market after this.” 

Tony glanced out the window, it was shaping up to be a lovely day, sunny but not scorching. Unusually pleasant for late November. He could picture her on the pavement outside the cafe in the morning light. He felt like he should get outside and enjoy some of the good weather, too. 

“When do you want me? And can I bring anything?” he asked. He slotted another book into place. 

“Come at seven. And bring wine, red this time. Apartment 308” 

He nodded, although she couldn’t see him. “You got it, see you then.” 

“You, too.” 

Both lingered for a second too long - not the clichéd “You hang up, no you hang up” situation, just a pause before finally saying goodbye. Tony exhaled and put the phone down, the second she’d asked for red, he knew exactly which wine he’d be bringing, but he had some Ian Fleming to shelve first.

Tony arrived just before seven, having managed not to agonise for too long over how dressed up to get. Dinner at her place suggested casual, but a conversation about everything that went wrong between them felt more formal. He aimed for the middle ground: button-down shirt and a sports coat over jeans. 

Ziva buzzed him up almost immediately and was already waiting at her door when he found her apartment. Hugging her in greeting felt natural by now, and she invited him in, saying he could hang his coat up by the door. 

To free up his hands, he passed her the wine bottle. 

“Red, as requested,” he said. “It’s one I brought back from Naples. You’re going to love it.” 

“Thank you.” She took it and skimmed the label with an approving nod. “No flowers?” she asked, assuming a surprised but playful expression. 

“Thought about it,” he admitted, shrugging off his coat. “But then I’d be standing here with a bouquet and this whole ‘not a date’ thing would be a lot harder to argue.”

Ziva gave a quiet laugh, low and pleased, and turned toward the kitchen. “A wise decision.”

“Do you want me to take my shoes off?” he asked, noticing that she was barefoot. She seemed to have struck a balance too: dark skinny jeans cropped at the ankle, paired with a flowy, almost formal blouse.

“No need,” she led the way through her living room and up the small step to the kitchen. “I just...” 

“You prefer to cook barefoot, right.” He remembered suddenly, toeing his loafers off anyway and following her in his socks. “Never did understand that, what if you drop one of your knives... I assume you still keep them just as deadly sharp as your weapons?” 

“When have I ever dropped a knife?” she asked indignantly. She motioned to the bar stools at the kitchen counter. “Sit down.”

Her apartment was exactly what he’d expected, a mix of warmth and precision, the rich colours she loved, popping against the creamy neutrals that came with the building, and everything precisely in its place. He remembered the fruit bowl, an enormous ceramic piece from Tunisia, the swirling design was meticulously hand painted. It was spacious, and in the daytime would have been bright and airy, but was dimmer now with standing lamps in favour of the overheads. Ziva had always been a fan of softer lighting when sunlight was not an option. The balcony doors were closed, muting the hum of traffic below.  

“Nice place,” he commented approvingly. It was nicer than his, if he was honest. A little newer, a little brighter. “I can see why you took it.” 

Ziva set a corkscrew and two glasses in front of him. “Thank you, yes. The second I heard Leonard was transferring, I put my hand up to take over here.” 

He got to work on the wine, pouring them both a serve. “It’s better if it breathes for a little. Do you want help with anything else?” he asked. 

Ziva straightened up from the oven, setting a tray of roasted vegetables on the counter. He spotted another baking dish on the stove, covered with foil. Lamb, he figured from the smell. 

“No, one successful meal is not enough to trust you in my kitchen yet. Besides, it is ready. You can take the pilaf.” She tossed a tea towel at him and pointed to a covered dish. 

“Pilaf?” he echoed, standing and wrapping the towel around it to protect his hands from the heat. “You didn’t need to go overboard, Zi.” That had been one of his favourite meals. 

She led the way to the dining table, a dark, heavy piece of furniture, already set with plates and cutlery as well as a carafe of water with lemon slices. 

“Some meals are better made for a group. I have not had a chance to cook like this for a while,” she shrugged, sliding a mat towards him to set his dish on. “But I did remember you liked it.” 

They made another trip to the kitchen, collecting the wine and the rest of the food, and sat opposite each other at the table. Ziva served; he was right, lamb so soft it fell off the bone and cooked in some kind of rich, deeply fragrant sauce. 

He waited until they were both settled before speaking again.

“So,” he said, adding some minted yoghurt to his plate. “We’re really doing this, huh?”

Ziva tilted her head, curious. “Dinner?” she asked. She poured them both water. 

“Dinner. Talking. Not fighting. Being... whatever this is.” The setup could not have been any more of a contrast to the way they’d eaten pasta on his couch a few nights earlier. A planned sit-down meal, hours in the making, every detail thought of ahead of time and no TV to act as a distraction. The two experiences were worlds apart, and Tony couldn’t help but notice they’d managed to keep the same ease they’d had, even with the pressure of more potentially difficult talking ahead of them. 

“Yes,” she said. “We agreed. Honest. Calm. No assumptions.”

Tony nodded slowly, swirling his wine a little. “Right. Act like we’re grown-ups. I can do that.”

She gave him a dry smile and picked up her fork. “Do not ruin it before we start.”

He held up both hands in mock surrender. “Wouldn’t dream of it. So... where are we starting this time?” 

Ziva considered for a second, then lifted her glass towards him, he met her in the middle. 

“Right here,” she said simply.

They clinked glasses.

Together, they got stuck in, to the food, and to the conversation.

Chapter Text

The good food made the conversation easier, although Tony was beginning to suspect they would have managed fine without the meal. Still, the very genuine compliments he was able to give - he had missed her cooking - definitely helped the cause, Ziva had never been averse to flattery. 

With the worst of it out of the way after that first meeting in the Navy Yard, it was easier to continue. Like picking up a thread of where they’d left off rather than finding a new one entirely. There were mistakes, from both sides. A crack that Tony made without thinking and an immediate bristle and sharp retort from Ziva. But they backtracked as many times as it took, redirecting themselves and setting the tone anew. There were still apologies to be made and sometimes a difference in opinion, but there was no wallowing in old hurts, no instinct to win. 

They lingered at the table, perhaps longer than necessary - Ziva sipping water, Tony having a third helping of pilaf not out of hunger, but because finishing would mean moving on.

So much of that first attempt had unfolded side by side, with long silences and looking away to catch themselves, to think. This was different. This was face-to-face, steady eye contact and somehow, that made it feel more sincere. Not that they’d been dishonest before, but this left nowhere at all to hide. 

Eventually, he had to admit defeat on the food, even one more of the toasted pine nuts from the pilaf felt like too much.

“You know,” he said, setting his fork down regretfully. “This makes four.”

Ziva swept a loose grain of rice off the table and dropped it on her plate. “Four what?” she asked, tilting her head.  

“Four good conversations, four not-dates. The cafe, lunch at the Yard, and two dinners. Five if you count the grocery store as a separate event.” He stood, stacking her plate on his to begin clearing the table. Ziva’s eyes narrowed, lightly disapproving, she took being the hostess seriously. 

“I’m helping, don’t argue,” he said with a grin, his hands already busy with the dishes. “But that’s exactly it - four argument-free conversations. What happened to us?”

Ziva’s mouth twitched, something like a smile. “We learned from our mistakes I suppose.” She gathered the serving dishes, following him into the kitchen. 

“I guess so,” he said thoughtfully. He returned the table for another load, this time including the wine glasses. “We’ve actually stopped before it got bad a few times now, huh?” He split the remains of the bottle between them, not quite a full drink each and passed hers over. 

“We did,” Ziva agreed softly. She tilted her head, considering. “That is... different.”

“You used to go cold,” he said gently. “I’d make a dumb joke and you’d pull back, all business.”

“And you would push harder,” she said, not unkindly. “Try to break the silence with more jokes, or change the subject.”

He gave a sheepish shrug. “Yeah. Classic DiNozzo deflection. But we’ve been catching it, haven’t we? You almost shut down earlier and then didn’t.”

“I almost did,” she admitted, meeting his gaze. “But, when I hesitated, you gave me space. And then you apologised before I needed to tell you that joke was too far.”

“Personal growth,” he said, raising his glass in a quiet toast. “To finally getting it right.” 

Ziva smirked, shaking her head. “To getting it right.” 

They drank, eyes locked over the corner of the island counter, quiet and comfortable in this new accord. 

“Right,” he declared, setting his drink down. “Point me in the direction of your dish soap, Ms David. And remember, we’re not arguing.” 

Ziva rolled her eyes. “Just rinse them and stack the dishwasher,” she instructed. “I know you hate washing up.” 

“I do,” he admitted. “But it’s a sacrifice I’d willingly make after a meal like that.” 

She shot him a sideways glance, both disapproving and pleased at the same time. “The dishwasher is fine. There are still my breakfast things in there, anyway.”

They got started, Tony rinsing and stacking, Ziva packing the leftovers into tubs. An easy rhythm fell into place, moving around each other like a well practised dance. Even in this new space, there were no collisions or missteps, they flowed around each other as seamlessly as though they’d been doing it for years. She bumped him gently out of the way to take over when the last dish remained, one that had to be hand washed to take care of it herself and he automatically found a new task in wiping down the table and clearing the last things off the counter. He knew without asking that the cling film would go back in the third drawer, and the carafe should be put in the fridge. Ziva leaned aside effortlessly as he swivelled the tap over to the other sink to refill it first. 

Before long, it was done, the kitchen and dining area restored, and both of them settled at the stools again with the last mouthfuls of wine. 

He turned his wine thoughtfully in his hand, watching the deep, purplish red run slowly down the sides of the glass. “This, of course, begs the question: If we can manage this now but not then, were we really just that bad together in the first place?” 

“No.” She shook her head gently. “We made a good match initially. We just handled everything that came after it badly.” 

He nodded slowly. “So what happened? How are we so good at it now?” 

“I think we grew up,” she said after a moment’s thought. “We took the time to heal from what we were running from when we got married in the first place.” 

“Ahh,” he replied, raising his glass again with exaggerated wisdom, “the classic young and stupid excuse.”

“Misguided perhaps, but not stupid.” She arched her brow, the dimple reappearing beside her mouth; she was having fun with this. “Although only one of us was young,” she added pointedly. 

He feigned offence. “Excuse you! I was youthful. Vigorous. Possibly even sprightly.”

“I could hear your knees every time you stood up!” Ziva exclaimed, laughing. “I still can,” she added in an afterthought. 

Tony put his hand to his heart, assuming a wounded expression. “That’s an old college injury, and you know it! And you groaned when you bent down to the freezer just now because...?” 

“Because my yoga teacher is a sadist.” 

He narrowed his eyes with a disbelieving hum. “Right, sure. Yoga.” 

“I am the same age now that you were when we first met,” she pointed out with a smirk. 

“Wow,” he said, leaning back. “You’re really rubbing it in now. And here I was, thinking we were reconnecting.”

“We are,” she said, smiling sweetly. “But that does not mean I will pretend you were not already middle-aged when we got married.”

Tony snorted, a laugh slipping out before he could help it. “You were no spring chicken yourself. I dunno what I saw in you,” he shot back. He knew that was a lie and not just to do with numbers, she was more mature back then than he was even now, probably. 

“I was twenty-seven,” she reminded him, and stretched her leg under the counter, just enough for her toes to brush against his instep. “And you could not keep your hands off me.” 

The touch was unmistakable, more than just an accident, and the old, instinctive familiarity of it hit Tony like a flash. His foot hooked around hers in reflex, a move that came as naturally as breathing. It was playful, but charged with the weight of all their shared history - times when they’d done this easily.

Ziva stilled. Her eyes flickered to his, catching something in the air between them. The easy, unspoken intimacy they always had. A spark that, back then, would have led to more. 

Tony realised what had just happened, his eyes widening. He pulled his foot back, almost too quickly, and settled his hands on his wine glass, his fingers wrapped tighter than necessary. The tension hung in the space between them, thick enough to cut. 

“Right,” he said, throat tighter than he expected. “Not a date.”

Ziva tipped her head to the side, her smile turning knowing as she met his eyes. “Of course not. Don’t be ridiculous.” But even as she said it, that look stayed in her eyes. As if to remind him that even without the bad habits, some things hadn’t changed.

Tony stood suddenly. “I’m just gonna - uh, bathroom?” Even if it was necessary, there was half a bottle of wine in him - he knew it sounded like a lame excuse to escape. 

If Ziva thought anything of it, she showed no reaction. “On your left, she said evenly and motioned to the hallway on the other side of her lounge. 

As the door clicked shut behind him, he braced himself on the sink, breathing slowly.

What the hell was that?

It was just footsie. Stupid, harmless, nostalgic. A game they’d played a hundred times before, even when they were still circling each other, all flirt and no foundation. Back before they’d ever admitted how they felt. It used to be so easy, so instinctive, a way to say I see you, without ever opening their mouths. It had been easy, fun, and effortless. No questions, no second thoughts. Just the way they were.

But now, this was Ziva. His ex-wife. Five years of silence after a disastrous divorce. They were supposed to be sorting out where they’d gone wrong. And it was nice that they’d been able to find such an easy, comfortable, honest way to talk about it all. He’d needed closure on some of that more than he’d realised; he wouldn’t deny it for a second. 

What he hadn’t expected was this. The spark. The one that lit up the second her foot found his. The kind that made his chest tighten in a way he hadn’t felt in a long time. The kind made him want to tug harder - just to see what would happen; if she’d lose her balance for a moment to land in front of him, just a breath away. Close enough to touch. 

Was it a test? Some kind of trap to confirm his honesty or his intentions after all this? No. He’d been a crappy husband, not a crappy human. They trusted each other.

It couldn’t have been the wine. Ziva could still outdrink him, he was sure of it. She wouldn't have been that careless. They’d broken the personal space boundary, too. If she wanted comfort, she would have reached with her hands, or at least without that sultry little smile.

When she slid her foot forward and brushed his own - stayed there - he hadn’t imagined it. That had been deliberate. That smile had been pointed.

And then he’d caught her foot. Instinct. Reflex. A move they used to do without thinking.

But the look they’d shared in that moment? It had been intimate and smouldering, laced with silent promises and longing. They hadn't looked at each other like that in years. 

And boy, had it thrown him. Not in a painful way, just enough to make him pause. To question everything he thought he’d packed away for good. Because he’d really believed that part of them was gone. He rubbed his temples. He’d locked all of that away with the rest of their broken marriage. But here it was again, slipping through the cracks.

He went through the motions of using the room for its intended purpose. Washed his hands. Splashed cold water on his face. It didn’t help.

He exhaled sharply, raking a hand through his hair.

Was this just muscle memory? A flicker of what they used to be? Or was it something more present? Definitely real, wherever it came from. He knew that much. Yeah, lusting after his ex-wife. That was bound to end well. 

He let out a dry, almost breathless laugh. “You’re in trouble, DiNozzo.”

Chapter Text

Ziva was over at the stove when Tony had got his thoughts in order enough to emerge. 

“I was starting to wonder if you had gotten lost in there,” she said lightly. So, acting like it never happened, okay, he could do that, too. 

He made his way back towards the counter. The wine glasses had been cleared away. “Nah, I was just trying to read that... thing you have hanging on the wall. See if I remembered any of the Hebrew.”

Ziva smirked. He’d learned almost all the Hebrew he knew by ear. Reading the script had always been a challenge. 

“Could you?” she asked, in a voice that told him she already knew the answer. 

“Not really,” he admitted with a shrug. “What is it?” 

“It’s a poem,” she kept stirring, but her grip on the spoon tightened. “By Yehuda Amichai. He was a very famous Israeli poet.”

“Right.” He tapped on the counter, still a little unsettled by what had gone before. “What’s it about?”

She paused. Swallowed. “Actually, it is about a relationship that ended much like ours.” Her voice held a note of forced casualness. 

“Oh.” So as far as small talk went, that was a bad choice.

“The end was quick and bitter, ” she added, and her voice didn’t quite hold steady at the end. She didn’t look at him, but she didn’t turn away either. “Slow and sweet was the time between us,” she finished, softer. Not tentative, just... thoughtful. 

Tony cleared his throat. “So speaking of sweet, is that what I think it is?” he asked, looking for an easier redirect. 

She nodded. “You remember?”

“Spanish hot chocolate,” he said. “I tried to make it for your birthday that time. It was... well, it wasn’t a disaster. But it was kind of thin.” That was after about a month together. Unlike the rice, it hadn’t been a complete write-off, but it also hadn’t been as good at Ziva’s. 

She nodded, a genuine smile beginning to bloom. “It was a good first try,” she said. “Mugs are in there. Get the red ones.” She pointed to an overhead cabinet. 

He moved to where she’d indicated, finding large, wide mugs that were practically bowls. “Smells great,” he added. He set them beside the stove, careful not to bump her - kitchen safety, of course, she was handling hot liquid. Definitely not because he was suddenly hyper-aware of touching her. 

“It tastes even better,” Ziva promised. She began ladling the thick drink into one of the cups. 

Tony chuckled quietly. “I don’t doubt that for a second.” 

She turned, handing him a mug, brimming with chocolate. “Do you want to sit in the lounge?” 

“Sure.” He followed in her wake. Her couch was smaller, practically a loveseat. He eased himself into the corner of the seat, facing her. It was a tighter fit than the long, L-shaped suite he had; their knees were almost touching. 

Ziva sipped her drink, sighing. “I have not made this in ages.” 

“But it’s got to be easier to make for one person, right? He asked, remembering what she’d said about the slow-cooked meat dish. 

“True,” she acknowledged. “But it is nicer with company.” 

“Well, happy to be the inspiration, then.” He raised his mug towards her, a kind of salute and took a sip. It was exactly as he remembered; thick, rich, and spiced with something slightly different each time. She'd never tell him what she was planning to use. Cinnamon once, chilli the next. This one he thought was cardamom. Always just enough to surprise him.

“I forgot how good this was,” he murmured. “Thanks.” 

Ziva smiled. “You’re welcome.” 

They settled into the quiet that followed, a comfortable drift back toward normal. The earlier tension gave way to low, familiar conversation. Ziva asked if more of Hanson’s owls had names; all of them, Tony confirmed, and he could remember about half. In turn, he learned that the team member Ziva had once described as a human polygraph, was actually the middle child of nine siblings.

A few new memories resurfaced: a road trip to the beach where the GPS betrayed them, and untangling some more of the prickly coldness that had settled between them in those awkward months in DC after they'd separated but before the divorce was final. They even managed to find a certain dark humour in how awful they’d been to each other, not triumphant, just impressed at how determined they’d been to come out the victor in what was ultimately an unwinnable war. 

Tony drained his cup and sighed with pleasure. “Just what I needed,” he said, stretching slightly. “So what brought this on? I didn’t think we’d reached ‘stalling with dessert’ kind of close.” 

“You did not say no, so perhaps we have?” Ziva replied with a small smile. “I just wanted something sweet. But solid food after a meal that size...” 

“Yeah,” he agreed with a chuckle. “If you fed me anything else, I’d be rolling down the sidewalk, not walking. But this?” He lifted his empty mug slightly. “Rich enough to be a meal all by itself. It just takes up less space in your gut.” He leaned forward to set it on the coffee table. 

“Also,” Ziva added, cradling her own cup, “I thought we needed something to keep our hands busy.” It wasn’t accusatory. Like everything else she’d said that night, it was simple truth she wasn’t dressing up.

Okay, so she wasn’t sure what to make of their game of footsie either, even if she’d been the one initiating. 

“It wasn’t our hands, Ziva,” he said quietly, glancing over at her. “What was that, anyway?”

She let out a breath and shook her head. “Familiar? Confusing? Old habits? Take your pick.” 

“I’ll take what is all of the above for two hundred, thanks, Alex,” he said, smirking wryly. “But you said old habits... not bad ones?” 

“Oh no, that part was never bad.” She said it lightly, almost in passing. But her eyes flicked towards his face just a second too long. “Was it?” 

“Not for a second,” he gave a satisfied chuckle. “The only bad part about it was that we stopped. Maybe if that had stuck around we would’ve worked harder on everything else.” There was a mutual smile, that same flash of underlying... more... and then they went quiet again, suddenly stiff and uncomfortable. 

Ziva didn’t answer. Her fingers curled tighter around the mug.

Tony exhaled sharply and gave a quick shake of his head. “Okay, why does it feel like an elephant followed me out of the bathroom? What’s going on here, Zi? We were doing so great before.” 

“We have stopped being honest,” she said simply. 

He looked at her, confused. “Nothing I’ve said was a lie, Ziva.” 

“I know, I believe you.” She nodded. “Perhaps not lying, but we have started to avoid saying things again.” 

She had him there. “Yeah,” he shrugged uncomfortably. “Because before...” he trailed off, not knowing how to finish the sentence. 

“Before,” she agreed. She paused for a second, twiddling her pendant in thought. “We have only been able to have this -” she gestured between them, a soft sweep of her hand that seemed to hold all of it: the late-night texts, the shared meals, the careful, aching familiarity - “because we have been so open. It is not just about honesty regarding what happened back then, but to be honest now, as well. The closure we’ve found - that’s only been able to happen because we have been truthful about our feelings in the present as well.” 

He nodded, slowly, a little unsure where she was taking this. “Well, yeah, I retconned most of it in my head. I told you that. I’m not mad at you anymore.” 

“Neither am I,” she reassured. “But if we do not continue to be honest about who we are now, and how that connection changes as we heal, then all the work we have done to find closure will be for nothing.”

He looked up at her. “So who are we now, then?”

“I cannot answer that for you,” she said gently. “But I believe if we keep deflecting, if we keep stopping and holding back... well, we know each other too well for that to work. We will push each other away again with the silence. I do not know about you, but I do not want a repeat of the last five years.”

“Me neither,” he agreed and rubbed his hand over his forehead absently with a heavy sigh. “But what if those things I’m trying not to think now are stupid? Dangerous, maybe?” Here she was, talking about preserving the honesty and goodwill they’d nurtured over the last couple of weeks, and he was focusing on feelings for her he thought were long gone. 

Ziva laughed softly, knowingly. “They may be so, but it does not make them wrong. What do you mean by dangerous?” 

He hesitated, curling one hand into a fist and banging the heel of the other palm against his thumb, trying to stall. “Dangerous in that they lead to the same mistakes we made last time,” he said, at last. 

“Ah,” she leaned back with an understanding nod. Her head tilted to the side, thinking as she tapped on her chin with the side of her thumb. “ That kind of dangerous. I see.” 

“It’s nothing,” he said quickly, hoping to brush it off. The look in her eyes told him she knew far too closely what he was getting at. “Probably just that whole, realising I missed you underneath being angry thing, there’s other stuff there too. Like I said, stupid.” 

Ziva’s eyes softened. “Missing someone is not stupid, Tony,” she said gently. 

“Even after everything?” 

“Especially after everything. Until we began to drift, it was the stuff of fairytales, there is plenty to miss in that. I missed you and what we had too.” She sighed. Her hand twitched like she might reach for him, but she settled for rubbing the pad of her thumb across her fingernails. “We did not end because we no longer cared but because we had forgotten that we did.” 

He stayed silent, thinking this over, feeling the crease between his brows growing deeper. “That makes sense, I guess.” He shrugged. “It's just hard to tell the difference between then and now sometimes, you know? Is this happening because we’re just living in the past and repeating ourselves, or because it’s worth something now?” 

“If this were the past, we would either have fought or wound up in bed by now,” she pointed out, the corner of her mouth tilting upwards for a second. “But this is what we talked about over dinner, that we are choosing to do things differently. To make sure we don’t have the same outcome.”

“That’s it though, Ziva. What outcome are we even trying for now? I thought this was just about closure, and suddenly we’re texting a million times a day and playing footsie under the counter.” 

Ziva chuckled again, softly. “And you ran over the hills the second it happened.” 

“Ran to the hills, you’re thinking of over the hills and far away,” the correction was so automatic he didn’t process what she’d said for a second. “Wait, you noticed?” 

“I am not blind, Tony.” 

He grinned sheepishly. “What can I say? I panicked.” 

“Why?” she asked softly. 

“Because I hadn’t thought about you like that in years, Zi. Thought all of that was dead and buried,” he admitted. “I mean, your feet were in my lap the other night and the little one liners we keep dropping... They're like nothing. Well, not nothing, but I know how to handle those. We’ve always done that. But one little game of footsie... that come hither look of yours... and I go to pieces.” The words seemed to fall out of him before he had a chance to think them through. 

She smirked, leaning forward a little. “I should be flattered that is all it takes to unnerve you.” 

Tony gave her a sideways glance, his grin widening despite himself. That teasing glint in her eyes bypassed all the careful defences he’d been trying to keep up. “Oh, you’re flattered, huh?” he returned with a cocky grin. 

Ziva’s smirk softened into something more serious, her gaze holding his steadily. “But truly, Tony... why panic?”

He shifted, leaning back in his spot, running a hand through his hair. “Because... I didn’t know what to do with it. We’re doing this whole closure thing, right? But then that happens, and I’m thinking, ‘wait, is this more than just tying up loose ends?’ And it threw me off.”

“It surprised me too,” Ziva confessed softly. She reached over to set her cup beside his on the table. 

“You started it!” 

“Starting it at all surprised me,” she tossed her hands in the air a little, as though handing control to the universe. “But I could not help it. And then... you played back. Then I remembered how we did the same thing in the restaurant, the night we got married, how I felt that night.” 

He knew exactly the moment she meant. Joined hands on top of the table, twined ankles beneath, so wrapped up in their own world that they hadn’t noticed the waiter. The memory made him smile. 

“I really did love you, you know?” He said, his voice even. No sarcasm or humour as a buffer. “Even if I did a crappy job proving it.” 

“I know,” Ziva said, her eyes not leaving his. “I loved you, too.”

Tony looked down, then back at her, frowning slightly. “So it’s just nostalgia, then, all the good memories coming back?” His voice lacked conviction, like he already didn’t buy what he was selling.

Ziva shook her head thoughtfully, “I think if we are going to keep pretending the moments where we connect more deeply are accidental or meaningless, then we are only lying to ourselves.” She paused. “And I think the feelings that come with them have stopped being memories. They are here and now. They are, to me at least.” 

“Yeah, same here.” He hesitated, looking down at his hands before glancing up again. “So, humour me here, Ziva, in the interests of honesty... Hypothetically, if I hadn’t done a runner before, what would’ve happened next?”

Ziva didn’t look away. “Strictly hypothetically?” she asked, tilting her head. “I would have kissed you.”

He let out a breath, eyes still on hers.  “Ahh, but kissing is a date behaviour,” he said, adding a playful tutting noise for good measure. Then his voice dropped, quiet but sure. “But even if I’d be okay with that, we did say this wasn’t a da-”

Ziva leaned forward the rest of the way and kissed him. No hesitation, no lead in, just her hand on his jaw and the press of her mouth over his, warm, still tasting like chocolate. She didn’t linger, but it definitely wasn’t chaste. Whatever the rest of his sentence had disappeared from his thoughts entirely. 

She pulled back just far enough to meet his eyes. “Maybe it is,” she murmured. 

Tony blinked for a second, unable to speak, then finally managed a low, surprised laugh. “So much for hypotheticals, I didn’t see that coming.”

“I only made the chocolate so I would not think about doing that.” Her foot snaked out, creeping beneath the hem of his jeans, bare toes warm against his ankle. 

“Oh...” His smile deepened as he reached out, hand light on her jaw, thumb brushing just under her cheekbone. “Why didn’t you say so?” 

And this time, he kissed her.

Chapter Text

It felt like minutes, not years, since Tony had kissed Ziva last. The warmth of her, the way she moulded herself against him, sighing into the kiss like it was just as much of a relief to her as it was to him, the way her hand snaked up the back of his head and into his hair, pulling him closer. 

She still tasted like chocolate and wine from dinner. But underneath was something else, something familiar, that he hadn’t tasted in a long, long time. The thing that had been missing from every one of the kisses that had happened in the interim. Something unmistakable, uniquely Ziva. 

God, he’d missed this. Missed her. 

He slid his hand up behind her and into her curls, answering her pressure and deepening the kiss still further. Memories flooded him - newlywed afternoons, heated and frantic. The precise way to catch her bottom lip in his teeth to pull a moan from her. The way her weight would shift further into his lap. Stolen kisses in the elevator or copier room, a muffled giggle when he’d suck along her neck, never quite hard enough to leave a mark. Half the thrill had come from knowing they could be caught. And those goodnight embraces, back when sharing the same bed had been a pleasure, not an obligation, their mouths and tongues moving in sync, deeper and deeper until it gave way to late nights and sleep-deprived mornings.

He couldn’t believe that she felt so good, warm and solid and real in his arms. Her fingers raked across his scalp and he responded instinctively, angling his mouth to meet hers deeper, slower. He traced slow, deliberate fingers down the curve of her spine, and she shivered, the faintest tremor against his chest. A low sound echoed in her throat - he hadn’t heard that in years. He did it again, just to know he still could. 

It wasn’t just the heat, though there was plenty of that. It was the weight of five years of silence giving way to something tangible. It reconnected them on a level they had always known, and he realised now that they had never truly let go of. Like finding a piece of himself he hadn’t realised he was still missing until she gave it back. The way her hands and mouth pulled at him, as though she was reclaiming the part of her he hadn't realised he’d been holding onto all this time. 

They settled in, steady and slow, drinking each other in, not quite running out of air - they were too good at it for that - but intoxicating and heady all the same. There was no rush, no impatience, no end goal. Just the two of them in one long, slow, seemingly infinite reconnection. 

Still, by some unspoken signal, they eased back together, Ziva moving at the same time he did. The kisses softened, their hands stilled, withdrawing just far enough to make eye contact. 

“Wow,” he breathed, his hands still in her hair, smoothing it down where he’d clenched, foreheads touching. “So, not just nostalgia then?” 

Ziva caught his wrist, drawing him down gently. “Can nostalgia do this?” She pressed his hand into her neck, where her pulse fluttered rapidly beneath his fingertips. 

“Probably not.” 

He dipped his head, because damn, he’d always loved the taste of her skin, landing where their hands had been so the heat of her body and heartbeat throbbed beneath his lips. Ziva’s head tilted, arching into him, opening herself up to more. It was an invitation he couldn’t refuse, following the line of her muscles, kissing down the side of her neck until she exhaled with a shiver that he felt to his core. 

He knew he should stop. He almost did. Drew back just enough to catch his breath, enough to say something half-hearted about needing to go. But then her fingers curled at the nape of his neck, keeping him close, and he was lost all over again.

“This is what I mean by dangerous,” he murmured against her skin. It was all so achingly familiar; the next steps were right there; they both knew where this led, but also how it had ended last time. It was this understanding that dragged a reluctant sigh from Ziva. 

“I know.” Even as she spoke, her head rolled, guiding him around to the front of her neck, into the hollow where her collarbones met.

He lingered, just long enough to feel the way her approving purr vibrated beneath his lips before summoning a willpower he didn’t know he had and pulling himself off her. 

“Okay,” he managed, his voice rougher than he expected. “Now, I should probably go home.” 

Ziva didn’t flinch, just leaned in to capture him in another short kiss. “That is probably wise,” she agreed breathlessly. She eased her weight off him so they could stand. 

“I really...” he cupped her face in both hands, stealing another kiss on this new angle, “really don’t want to though.” 

“I know.” Her fingers curled over his wrists, keeping him there. “But...” 

“But too much.” Another kiss. “Too soon.” 

She nodded, exhaling against his lips. “Far too soon.” 

With a considerable effort, he pulled his mouth away, resting on her forehead. Not a kiss, just the pair of them catching their breath. 

“Alright, I really am out of here this time,” he said regretfully, letting her go and moving for the door. 

He slid his shoes back on, Ziva still standing close enough to feel, even if they weren’t quite touching. 

“So,” he hesitated, one hand on the doorknob. “That was uh, an interesting dinner.” 

Ziva raised an eyebrow, a smile tugging at her lips. “And dessert.”

“And not not a date,” he added with a grin.

She handed him his coat. He was warm enough he didn't want to wear it. “But not dating ,” she stressed the last syllable gently. 

“Yeah, no. Definitely not,” he agreed. “Feel like trying this wild idea where I don’t screw everything up all at once.” 

Ziva huffed a soft laugh. “That will take time,” she warned. “But you are already doing better.” 

He smiled, pushing her hair behind her ear gently. “So are you,” he answered. 

Suddenly, his back hit the doorframe, staggering as she was against his chest, kissing him one last time, hot and needy. It was the kind of kiss that made him question his resolve, intense and mind melting, and delivered with just about every ounce of allure she knew how to deliver. 

It was much, much harder to stop, and it was Ziva who eventually broke the kiss first. 

She stepped back, running her fingers through her hair and exhaling hard. “Call me soon,” she breathed. 

“Anything you want, Ziva,” he promised, finally turning for the door. 

The air was a cool relief on his face as he made it back to the street. That last kiss had been something different. Off-the-charts, toe-curling, why-did-we-ever-stop levels of incredible. 

And still, somehow, here he was walking home, alone. Like he actually had impulse control. 

Five years suddenly felt like a very long time. Especially when wanting her that badly hadn’t changed one damn bit.

“Yep,” he murmured to himself, replaying that last minute in her apartment. “Definitely going to need a cold shower.”

Chapter Text

Tony called as requested, but work had other ideas that kept them both busy - separately - for almost three weeks. They still sent texts regularly, and crossed paths - living on the same street would do that - but their meetings were brief at best, a tired smile or a quick wave. 

By the time they finally managed to overlap their schedules again, it had been so long Tony had himself half-convinced he’d made the whole thing up; the kiss, the heat, the way she’d looked at him after. But then there she was, waiting for him to arrive, both of them still in office gear. No time to go home, but he’d changed into a clean shirt and spritzed on a little of one of the colognes he usually kept in his desk for post-pursuit-on-foot freshening up. When she smiled and pulled him into a hug that lingered just long enough for her to breathe him in, her nose dragging along the side of his neck for a second (so what if he’d picked the scent she’d always liked best?), he knew he hadn’t imagined a damn thing.

They got themselves stationed in a corner with their drinks. The venue was quiet, just a little wine bar halfway between where they each worked, nothing special, but not the preferred hangout for either agency. It wasn’t that they were keeping the meeting a secret exactly, just that they didn’t much feel like explaining it to anyone, either. He insisted on paying, and Ziva agreed with the understanding she would buy the second round. It was a work night and they both had to drive, two was the limit. 

“So, what happened with that murder?” Ziva began once they were settled. “Did you work out who did it?” she asked, picking up the thread of conversation from their texts throughout the week. 

Tony nodded, swirling his glass - if it was only going to be two drinks, then he’d draw out the time for as long as possible. “For once, “it’s always the wife” turned out to be right, it really was the wife. He was having an affair, only she decided to take out the mistress, not the husband. Of course, when that mistress just so happens to be a Marine, we end up with the case, not Metro.”

He took a sip, then nodded toward her. “What about you? That thrilling white-collar case with the shell companies - did your guy squeal, or are you still living the FBI dream and drowning in spreadsheets?”

“He squealed,” Ziva said with a sigh of relief. “There’s still paperwork, but at least we know where to look now.” 

They chatted on for a while; light, inconsequential topics. Work, weather, the woman whose hair matched her leggings in Ziva’s Wednesday night yoga class - she’d been magenta last week but was aqua now - how long the beat-up Chevy with only three wheels that had appeared parked between their buildings two days earlier would last before it was towed. 

The whole thing felt comfortable and easy, less formal than two colleagues trading work updates, not quite as weighty as a serious date. Despite his plan to savour his drink and stretch the night out, all too soon Ziva was up buying their second glasses. 

“At risk of ruining the mood, Zi,” he asked when she returned. “What are we doing here?” 

She set his glass down in front of him with a soft clink. “Having a drink?” she replied with a smirk. 

“Very funny,” he deadpanned. “You know what I mean. We wound up playing tonsil hockey during a date that wasn’t really a date. We said one thing and did another... and don’t get me wrong, it was great, hot, best kiss in years... but... you said honest, and honestly, I don’t know what the deal is.” 

“We did...” she agreed, leaning back i her chair and drumming her fingers on the table for a moment. “But, truthfully, I do not know. I just know that I want to see you. You are good company... and an excellent kisser.” She raised her glass in a playful salute. 

Tony mirrored the gesture. “Obviously, I don’t hate this either,” he threw in with a shrug, chuckling when she rolled her eyes. “Seeing you at all is definitely better than not,” he added more seriously. 

“But when we were together...” she faded, growing serious. 

He knew what she meant. “Yeah, everything kind of got on top of us.” 

Ziva nodded. “Yes, I have a life now. One I built for myself. I like this. I like us, I like how this feels. But I do not want to lose sight of everything else.” She looked at him for a moment, direct but cautious. “It is scary how quickly everything I do can become about you. It already feels wrong when I have not heard from you in a while. I do not want to name anything or rush. I want to find out where this might go, but not at the expense of everything else.” 

He thought this over for a minute. Nearly every decision he’d ever made since Ziva first joined their team had been centred around her. Even the move to Naples had been because of her - technically an escape, but still about her. Of course, he still wanted to see more of her; the friendship was still very real (and so was the physical attraction), but he hadn’t dropped everything to make it happen like he might have before. Neither had she. They’d waited until their schedules aligned. It felt good, like maybe, for the first time, there was some kind of balance. 

“I get that,” he agreed. “I mean, it’s mostly work and annoying McGee, but it’s mine. We lived in each other’s pockets. I don’t wanna do that again... or at least, I don’t want you to think I’m trying to go back to how we were.” 

“No, no,” she said with a relieved laugh. “Definitely not that. But I do want to see you. And I like that we are still trying to communicate better than before, even if it is not about starting over.” 

“And I want to see you, Zi,” he said. “So we’re not starting over. And you made it clear last time that we’re not dating, so like I said, what are we doing?” 

She tilted her head, thinking. “How about... catching up?” she supplied. 

He raised an eyebrow. “Catching up, is that what the kids are calling it these days?” he asked with a smirk. 

“Would you prefer ‘hanging out’?” she asked, returning the smile. 

“Mmm.” He sipped, watching her over the rim of his glass. “That sounds an awful lot like what people say right before they fall back into bed together. And like I said the other night... that seems kind of dangerous right now.” 

Ziva nodded, smiling around her drink. “Then we will not say that,” she said simply.

“Smart.” He nodded wisely. “You know, if we were really smart, we probably wouldn’t be here together at all. Exes meeting up again, it’s been a bad idea since the dawn of time... or at least since Ilsa and Rick.” 

She shrugged it off, flicking her eyes up to him, the perfect blend of dismissive and flirty. “But here we are.” 

“Here we are,” he repeated. “Not overthinking, not making plans, just catching up in a date-like way. Hopefully often.” 

Ziva leaned across the table with a soft smile. “Definitely often,” she assured. 

The table was the small, intimate seating kind anyway, but she was even closer now, curls tumbling over one shoulder. All he’d have to do to close the gap would be to lean forward himself. A prospect that was even more tempting with the new warmth smouldering in her eyes. 

“So tell me...” he moved back, rather than forward, unwilling to cross that boundary till they had defined it. But still, the only way he was going to know was to ask. “Does ‘catching up’ still involve kissing you?” 

“We agreed last time it would be dishonest if we ignored how we felt about each other...” Ziva tipped her head to the side, her chin angling up. “So... kissing can definitely be involved.” 

He recognised an invitation when he saw one. One hand lifted, fingertip brushing under her chin as he leaned in, just long enough to press his lips to hers. It was only a second, but already he could feel his thoughts zeroing to just her. 

“But,” she continued as they pulled back. “I also think that we can acknowledge some feelings exist without acting on all of them. And I think that if we let things go any further, everything else would become blurry.” 

“Yeah,” he agreed vaguely, dropping his hand. “Blur’s a good word for it,” he murmured. 

Her index finger hooked around his as it rested on the table, a pause, waiting until he’d focused back on her, instead of everything that could have come after that one brief kiss. 

“I think the old and the new are still too close right now,” she said, gently. “I feel like I would get swept away in it all again.” 

He nodded, understanding. “Yeah, it’s so easy to get lost in you Zi... you...” he stopped, whatever words would come next, - even though he didn’t quite know what they were - definitely crossed the line of “not starting over.”  

He breathed out and started again. “What if... not yet? Reassess once we know where this is going to be something and we’re sure we can keep our heads straight afterwards?” 

“Yes, but that may take a while,” she warned. “We’re still trying to untangle a lot of what went wrong before and break some bad habits in how we handle conflict now.”

She held his gaze. “We were always good in bed. But if we fall back on that too soon, I think we’ll stop doing the harder work. The things that still need time to heal.”

He nodded, and Ziva continued. 

“And... whatever this is, whatever we’re doing, I want to keep making sure we do not just repeat the past. You said maybe if we’d stayed intimate, we would have tried harder to fix the marriage.” She shook her head. “I don’t want to stop working on us again, just because we get distracted by sex. Especially if we decide we are better off as friends.”

Tony gave a soft chuckle. “Yeah, we were always pretty good at making out. Making progress, not so much.” 

“I think this time, we can do both, so long as we are careful.” Her thumb brushed across his knuckles. “Although we are not calling it anything.” 

He shrugged, easily, keeping it light. “Right, nothing to call,” he said. “Just two people, catching up. With some friendly kissing.” 

Ziva laughed softly, shaking her head just a little. “Yes, very friendly.”

“Extremely.” He smirked, then leaned back into his seat, letting his fingers stay tangled with hers. “I can handle kissing.” 

“Oh, I am sure you can,” she said with a dry chuckle. She leaned in again, the small space between them suddenly charged. Her eyes fixed on his, burning low and steady. “But... it also means stopping those kisses before we go too far.”

She paused, close enough now that he caught the faint citrus scent of her hair, dizzying and familiar all at once.

“Even when I ask you to keep going,” she murmured, voice thick with promise. “And I will.” 

His mouth - and his thoughts - ran dry for a second. That look, that voice. She was going to undo him right there in the wine bar. Then he caught the flicker in her eyes, the faint quickening of her breath, the way her hand pulsed against his. She knew exactly what she was doing to him. 

But if she thought she was the only one who could throw him off balance... two could play this game.

“Don’t worry, Zee-vah,” he drawled, voice slower now, deliberate. He flipped her hand over with a lazy confidence, tracing idle, feather-light circles over her palm, lingering in the centre until she curled her fingers, trying to catch him.

"I’ll stop," he promised, the words dragging low from his throat, rougher than he intended.

He let the moment stretch - savouring the way her breath stuttered - then his touch drifted upward, slow and barely-there, over the inside of her wrist, feeling the wild jump of her pulse under his fingertips.

Higher still, brushing his knuckles along the inside of her forearm. Breathing her in, he leaned closer, until her lips parted in anticipation.

But instead of meeting the expectant tilt of her chin, he skimmed past it, hiding a smirk at the soft sound she made when the kiss didn’t land - their cheekbones brushing until he came to rest a breath away from her ear. 

“Eventually.”

Ziva’s breath stilled, a barely audible catch that made his pulse spike. For a moment, neither of them moved. The tension was so thick, it hummed in the air around them. Her pulse fluttered against his fingers, impossibly fast.

He pulled back almost too casually, as if it hadn’t just taken him every ounce of control. He let their hands drift apart, trailing back across her palm with a slow, practised grace, dodging her effortlessly once more when her fingers tried to grasp his. 

“Good thing stubborn was always one of our love languages,” he added, with a lazy grin like he had no idea what he’d just done to her.

Ziva’s eyes lingered on his, dark and amused, before she tilted her head.“I thought that was sarcasm?” she said, voice warm, hiding laughter and the faintest rasp, still caught in the moment. 

Tony grinned back. “Eh, little of column A, little of column B.” He shrugged. 

They shared a quiet laugh, the tension between them finally unwinding, though the air still crackled with unspoken words. But it was easy now. Comfortable. They both knew where they stood.

“So,” Ziva said, lifting her wine glass, composure suddenly restored. “Tell me what Hanson and Fletcher got up to this week.”

Tony launched into a tale that involved loose chair screws and water bombs, his voice light again and smiling the whole time. 

Yeah, this was good. Just catching up.

And maybe, kissing occasionally.

Nothing more.

Chapter Text

Somehow, the next two months felt more real to Tony than their entire marriage. 

Ziva had called what they’d had before a fairytale, all heat and passion and surface-perfect romance, all-consuming. He had to agree. That wave of relief after Somalia had swept them up fast. One minute, they were finally admitting what they felt, and the next, they were married. No stops along the way. No time to ask if they were ready or really compatible. No real plan for how the hell they’d handle the world once the honeymoon period wore off.

When reality hit, it hadn’t just shaken them. It had chewed them up and spat them out. But this - whatever this was now - it felt different.

They still weren’t calling it anything, not out loud. Instead, they said "Taking it slow," and "playing it by ear" - phrases that got tossed around enough that he’d started to think maybe that was the whole point. If it wasn’t officially something , then it couldn’t break.

Even so, they were seeing each other. A lot. Their separate jobs, separate apartments, the whole “living adult lives like functional humans” thing added space, and probably was partly the reason they hadn’t crashed and burned all over again. It made it all easier somehow. Gave them room to breathe. To think. To just enjoy being in the same orbit again.

Of course, they still fit. Some things were always going to be second nature. He kept her favourite tea in his kitchen again. She waited up after stakeouts just long enough to shove food in his hands before he passed out. They texted good morning. They texted goodnight. Every single day.

They’d done all those things in the good phase of their marriage, and they’d been just as real back then, too. There was no doubt either one of them had cared, but at the same time, they had been playing a part. The perfect couple embracing life in the wake of tragedy, trying to keep the grief at bay by pretending it didn’t touch them. 

Now? It felt less forced. Less idealised. They weren’t trying to shut the world out anymore. They were trying to exist inside it, together.

Work had been kind lately. Not quiet, exactly, he doubted either of them knew what that really looked like, but manageable. Some of the dates were planned, others spontaneous. A walk around the city, coffees in hand, no destination in mind, content to just be together for a while. Breakfasts at the cafe when the schedule allowed, or movie nights on the couch. Cooking together - although always at his place, Ziva still claimed he was a menace in the kitchen. He still maintained that was slander. 

Most of all, they talked, really talked. Long conversations that stretched as late as they could with work the next day, curled up in opposite corners of the couch or leaning against the counter with a glass of wine. They caught up on all the missing years: the people, the places, the cases. The ways they'd both changed. There was understanding, laughter, explanations, and moments of absolute absurdity. There were apologies, too, some long overdue, some quiet, some reluctant, but all of them honest.

It was a slow, thorough relearning of each other, one minute at a time. 

Not to mention the kissing. 

They did a lot of that. 

They were still careful about reaching too much - although they never defined exactly what that meant. But so far, it entailed avoiding anything longer term than “see you on the weekend,” keeping any talk about feelings squarely in the this is nice territory, and always, always saying goodnight before the kisses turned into something more involved. 

The problem was, it was getting harder to say goodnight by the day. Hands strayed to hair and tugged on belt loops, drawing them closer and deeper, always suggesting there could be more to come. 

They were on his couch, again, not quite horizontal, but definitely not vertical either. It was February now, still icy outside, and she’d arrived complete with a chunky sweater. He’d laughed and compared her to a yeti. She’d swept his knees out and pinned him to the rug till he’d apologised. 

Now, when what was supposed to be a brief kiss goodbye had turned into a thorough makeout session, it bunched between them every time one of them moved against the other, seeking friction that wasn’t strictly forbidden but was definitely toeing the line. 

“This thing,” he griped playfully, tugging at the hemline, “is a crime of indecency.” 

“Excuse me?” Ziva cast a glance down at herself, all flushed cheeks and ruffled hair. “It covers everything it is supposed to,” she countered.

“Precisely,” he said. “It’s so decent it’s indecent.” 

She huffed half a laugh, half a sigh, and leaned in again, close enough that their foreheads were touching and he couldn’t read her expression to tell if she was amused or plotting his murder. But after a second, she pulled back, just far enough to slowly peel the sweater over her head. 

She tossed it to hang over the back of the couch. “Better?” 

It was, and not just because the blouse, the same colour as the wine they'd shared, hugged her frame in all the right ways - although that helped. This was new - even if she was still more than fully clothed, it was the first time in a long time anything had come off mid-kiss. 

“Much,” he agreed, pulling her closer. 

She didn’t hesitate; her mouth was on his again, her hands sliding downward, pushing beneath the hem of his sweater. Before he could react, she was working it up, breaking the kiss just long enough to let it pass over his head and tug his arms free. 

“Fair is fair,” she murmured in explanation, tossing it aside. Some of the surprise he felt must have translated to his expression. 

Her hands slid back down his chest, hot through the fabric. “Is this the part you were talking about where I have to be the one to stop things getting out of hand?” he asked, breath catching as she untucked his shirt, fingertips skimming along the skin of his stomach. 

“Soon,” she breathed, pushing back on his shoulders. He went with the pressure, the back of his head connecting with the cushions as she threw a leg over him, sliding herself into his lap. “But not yet.” 

They’d earned this bit of leeway, he supposed, as her weight settled over him, his hands moving of their own accord, under her shirt to find the familiar ridges of her spine. They’d been good for weeks, always keeping things just this side of dangerous. Heck, half the fun had been the tease, always knowing they would stop, even when they tried to make it impossible. And it was good, worth the restraint. Even on the nights he stood breathless in the shower, finishing what they started, replaying every last kiss like a highlight reel. 

A little further would still be safe; they’d already proved they could handle it. They’d earned something more intense, to touch each other’s skin, to discover - if only by feel - how the shape of each other’s bodies had changed. To let familiar heat and weight and rhythms take over in a way that mimicked what they once had and maybe ride out those sensations all the way to the end without technically crossing any lines. 

But Ziva moved, and a little became a lot. A shift of her hips, familiar and well-practised. The press of her mouth on his throat, doing that... thing ... with her tongue on his collarbone. The thing that, years ago, had managed to distract him from the best part of Oceans 11. Now, it was making him wonder why they’d ever agreed that stopping was a good idea. 

Still, they had to call it a night, and soon. He could feel his brain melting into the heightened sensations. Technicalities and lines seemed to be blurring by the second. He opened his mouth to say just that. A warning, a reminder. Something vaguely responsible. 

Then, Ziva's hands were under his shirt, palms against his stomach, fingers splayed, skating up his chest as she drew back to meet his gaze. Hunger. Impatience. Permission. She was as done with waiting as he was. It was the look in her eyes that fried his brain completely. There had to be a way to make it work for them where they were now. 

“Maybe we don’t say goodnight... call in sick tomorrow,” he heard himself saying instead. “One little relapse won’t hurt.” 

Ziva stopped dead. Not a pause to think or to catch her breath. A halt like she’d slammed into a wall. The kind of change in atmosphere he felt before he saw it on her face. Her spine grew rigid and her body angular and heavy. Searing heat turned frosty in an instant. 

She pushed off him, her face set. Not angry... just blank. Without a word, she reached for her sweater and dragged it back on. 

Tony struggled upright, still half sprawled back on the cushions, head reeling from the abrupt change of pace. 

“Zi, I...” 

The look on her face stopped him. She still wasn’t angry, or even disappointed. She almost looked like she had expected this. So much for not screwing everything up all at once. 

“If you had said anything else, Tony. Anything. I would have said yes,” she whispered, her voice brittle but cutting. 

“I didn’t me-” Well, actually, he had meant it. “Not like that.” He didn’t even know what that was, but this might buy him time to work it out. 

Ziva’s eyebrow raised silently. She wasn’t buying it either. She spun on her heel and turned for the door. “Perhaps this was not such a good idea after all.”

The door didn’t slam in her wake, but shut with a quiet finality. 

Silence fell. Numb and hollow. Familiar in the worst way. Like the night she’d left their marriage - except this time, he wanted her to stay.

And he’d blown it. Because of course he had. He didn’t know whether he was meant to go after her, call, or simply go to bed and pretend it never happened. Before he could make up his mind, his phone chimed. 

It was Dispatch. He had a job to do. 

Chapter Text

Tony hadn’t slept. Not because of Ziva.

There’d been an armed robbery at a convenience store on H Street. It should’ve been Metro’s problem, but one of the hostages turned out to be a sixteen-year-old Navy dependent of someone very high up and important. Pure coincidence, just a poorly timed supply run for study fuel; wrong place, very wrong time. Still, once her name pinged in the system, the MCRT had gotten the call.

So instead of going to sleep - or lying in bed and staring at the ceiling, which was probably all he’d have managed after Ziva had walked out - he spent the night negotiating with a strung-out gunman and trying to keep a minor from choking on her own panic. Everyone got out safely. No shots fired. The perfect outcome. 

He’d been good. Sharp. Steady. The kind of leader his team needed. The kind his Probie could learn from. It was the kind of night that demanded total focus. The kind that helped dull the lingering sting of the “newest agent” badge the rest of the building still saw him wearing. The kind of night you could lose yourself in, if you didn’t want to think too hard about anything else. 

He smelled. No, he stank. When it was over, the poor kid had launched into a full-scale breakdown when she’d seen the flashing lights and perimeter tape. She spent the next 10 minutes heaving loudly into a paper bag. That was no issue, Baltimore PD, narcotics beat, Tony had a stomach made of iron. Agent Fletcher, it turned out, did not. She heard the noise and promptly barfed all over herself... and on his shoes. Tony had stood there holding back the victim’s hair while it soaked into his sock. 

But now the sky was lightening, he’d stood wearily through the sobbing parents’ relieved thanks, dosed Fletcher with the antacid he usually carried for himself and given a by-the-book statement to the journalists gathered across the road. Now, there was nothing else left he could fix. 

The bullpen was quiet when they returned; night shifts were shutting down, too early for the day shift to have really warmed up. Cooper went straight to the break room; he was the only one who could make the federal-grade sludge that passed for coffee taste halfway decent. Hanson quietly disarmed the practical joke she’d set up the night before, too grateful for Cooper’s coffee to risk messing with him. Fletcher vanished toward the showers with a go-bag from under her desk and an embarrassed expression.

That reminded Tony, and he glanced down at his shoes. It had dried now. He pulled them off, touching as little as possible and traded them for the loafers he kept under his desk. The socks would have to stay. Somehow, he’d managed not to pack fresh ones last time he restocked. Fletcher owed him on that one for sure. 

He pulled out his phone and opened the handful of notes he’d made during the long wait overnight. There were reports to file. Rubbing his eyes, he realised he’d spelled the suspect’s name three different ways: Shaun, Sean and Shawn; they’d only heard it by ear at that stage. He’d glanced at the guy’s ID when they’d handed custody over to Metro, but now, for the life of him, he couldn’t remember the correct option. 

He picked the first one, typed it and and stared at the screen, trying to picture the license. But his mind kept drifting to the way Ziva had shut the door. Soft. Final.

“Not a good idea”, she’d said. Well, yeah, they had gone from 0 to 100 pretty fast. And even if it felt good at the time, making decisions in the heat of the moment hadn’t worked out so well for them in the past. Probably a good thing she’d left. Before they did anything really stupid. 

“S-E-A-N. Irish, like Fletch,” Cooper murmured, dropping a paper cup on his desk.

Tony reached for it, the heat bleeding through the cardboard. “Thanks,” he said, voice rough. His throat burned. So did his eyes. Funny, he hadn’t felt this wrecked the morning he came back to work newly separated. And that had been an actual breakup.

He sipped, it was too hot, scalding the tip of his tongue. Another trick of Cooper’s, always managing to turn out actually hot-hot coffee from the lukewarm carafe, but somehow claimed never to use the microwave. 

There was an unusual softness to their workday hum - Tony was always more lenient with chatter during report writing than Gibbs had ever been - but no one took advantage of that today. Normally, Coop would have subjected them to his latest playlist or videos of whatever trick he was teaching his dog. Hanson would be firing off sarcasm and texting her boyfriend with one hand while writing a report with the other; she never stopped multitasking. Even Fletcher, who was just generally loud, was subdued and avoided eye contact when she returned to her seat. 

Instead, Cooper got to work with headphones on, Hanson put both hands on the keyboard, and Fletcher settled at her desk, feet up, keyboard in her lap, silent. 

No one was walking on eggshells. But no one was poking either. It wasn’t how they worked. He knew them well now; they were a little too smart, a little too observant, and had been in the field just long enough to know when something had shifted. They also weren’t close enough to outright ask, as McGee might have done years earlier. 

They were tired too, he reasoned. Out all night, the same as him. Long, tense hours, gallons of (terrible) coffee to stave off the bitter February air that left everyone somehow overfull and hollow at the same time. That inevitable rush of relief and adrenaline crash that came when it was all over. Of course, the bullpen was quieter today. No one had the energy for antics.

Maybe they were giving him more space, but if so, it was just a habit. The same space they were allowing each other, no pranks, no sarcasm. The vague, sidelong quiet teams slipped into when the exhaustion was so unanimous that hierarchy blurred, and everyone was on the same level for a while. 

Not that there was anything to talk about, anyway. They hadn’t even known he’d had a date. Never mind who it had been with. He hadn’t said Ziva’s name in front of any of them since the night they’d met her. 

Hanson yawned. Fletcher echoed it. Yeah. Just tired.

By eleven, the rhythm had settled into something verging on strained. Every question was asked in a whisper, and it seemed any breaks were conducted on tiptoe. Tony decided he’d send them home the second these reports were done. 

He pulled out his phone, nothing new. Maybe he should text her. Just to check in. 

You okay?

Nope. He knew that already. 

I’m sorry.

No, that sounded too much like guilt. No need to add that to the pile if he didn’t have to. Besides, until he knew exactly what had gone wrong for her, he didn’t know why he was apologising. He started with just her name, then realised he didn’t really know what he should say after that. 

With a sigh, he closed the message app and turned back to his report. Progress was slow. His mind was fuzzy, drifting, and he kept deleting and rewriting sentences, making only minuscule changes. 

He’d used so many dumb pickup lines on Ziva before, and she’d just rolled her eyes and kissed him anyway. This one was no different. Not really. She’d cool down and they’d laugh about it eventually. No need to analyse that. 

He was still staring blankly at the final paragraph on the screen when the room shifted. Hanson sat up straighter, Fletcher pulled her feet down off the desk, Coop took out his earbuds. 

Tony didn’t need to look up, he knew that step anywhere. 

“Reports are done?” McGee asked from behind him. Bastard sounded well-rested, chipper almost. Like someone who’d spent the night in bed and had sustenance that wasn’t brown liquid. 

Hanson stretched, nodding. “Waiting for approval, but yes.”

“Not my finest work, but the details are there.” Fletcher yawned.

“Done.” Cooper hit a final key with an audible sigh of relief. 

“Good,” McGee nodded. “Get out of here. The rest of the day is yours. Eat something that didn’t come out of the vending machine, sleep on a mattress. Back to it tomorrow.” 

There was a half-second hesitation, a glance in his direction. McGee might have rank, but they wanted Tony’s approval, too. He waved his hand in the direction of the elevator without a word. They didn’t wait to be told twice. Goodbyes, as careful as the rest of their communication that morning, were directed at Tony as they scattered. 

“You too, Tony,” McGee added when he didn’t follow his team out the door. 

He pretended to look deeply engrossed in checking the last paragraph for the umpteenth time. “Just got a few more details to tighten up here.” 

McGee came closer and lowered his voice. “I mean it, get out of here. Call Ziva or something.” 

Tony didn’t look at him. He hadn’t said a word about Ziva to McGee since the Paris case. That was almost three months ago. Lucky guess, that’s all it was. 

“Stakeouts before makeouts,” he quipped, hitting the spacebar. 

McGee narrowed his eyes. “Is that your official stance, Tony?” There was a quiet undertone that warned he would pull rank if he had to. 

“It is.” Tony shrugged. “I got three reports to approve now, anyway.” 

McGee shrugged back, unmoved. “Read them at home if you have to. But you’re not staying here,” he instructed, his voice still even. “And yes, that is an order.” He spun on his heel back towards the stairs. 

“Sheesh. Anyone would think you guys don’t want me working on paid time,” Tony huffed and made a show of shutting down his computer. Then lingered, organising his desk for five extra minutes just because he knew McGee was standing on the catwalk making sure he actually left. 

The apartment was quiet when he returned. He kicked off his shoes, immune now to the sensation of the crusty socks and left his jacket on. It wasn’t cold, exactly - he could hear the heat running - but something still felt... chilly.

He wandered without knowing what he was looking for. Opened the fridge, closed it. Stood in the hallway too long, staring at the front door. The silence was somehow enormous and overfull at the same time, every little creak of the pipes and hum of the heat seemed amplified. 

He checked his phone. Still nothing. 

There was pizza on the counter from the night before. He ate it cold, without really tasting it and flopped to the couch with his laptop, intent on going through his agents’ recollection of the long night. He didn’t get far. His eyes still throbbed from lack of sleep and the words blurred on the page. It took a double-take to realise that Hanson hadn’t misspelled her own name. 

Ziva’s message thread was open on his phone before he even realised he’d gone there. The last one - See you soon x , sent late the previous afternoon - was still the most recent. His thumb hovered, hesitated, halted. The display dimmed and timed out on its own.

He told himself he was giving her space. Time to cool down, to think, to maybe miss him again. Pushing would only make it worse.

The heat kicked in with a low whoosh, not quite loud enough to drown out the voice in his head asking whether this was about space - or fear. Whether he was giving her time, or just avoiding a more definite answer.

He stayed slumped on the couch, tie still on, laptop still glowing. His phone was in hand, a bottle of water he didn’t remember collecting on the coffee table. The pizza box beside him on the cushions, one slice left. The remote right beside it. 

Everything he could need was within reach, and for some reason, not a single thing he wanted. 

Chapter Text

Tony hadn’t even realised he’d fallen asleep until he woke up. 

Pale grey light filtered through the curtains. He blinked at his watch through sleep-crusted eyes, 14, no, 15 hours of merciful, dead-to-the-world unconsciousness. He needed that more than he realised. 

He patted blindly for his phone with one hand, tugging his tie loose with the other. He found it, jammed between the cushions. The pizza had slithered to the floor, there was a sauce stain on the rug, but his laptop was - thankfully - still on his knees. 

The phone screen lit up in his hand. Nothing new.

He frowned. Ziva always texted first. A tease about him oversleeping, or some smug reminder that he still hadn’t made good on his promise to join her morning run - though that particular farce was on hold thanks to the current cold snap. They both knew he never would. That was the point. It was a game, persistence versus evasion, and it had been fun.

It took a second for him to remember the way she’d frozen mid-kiss, climbing off him like she couldn’t bear to touch him for one more second. The look on her face, tight and resigned. Like she’d been expecting that moment all along. 

Oh. So, she hadn’t cooled down yet. 

The phone still had a surprisingly decent charge, considering he hadn’t plugged it in. Strange how not spending half the night in a back-and-forth text exchange didn’t chew up the battery. He rubbed his eyes with the heel of his hand, yawned - his mouth tasted like cardboard and stale cheese - and groaned as he shifted his neck, discovering a fresh kink from the angle he’d slept in.

Another glance at his watch. Definitely morning, even if it was early. Too late to go back to sleep, not enough time for anything else. May as well go to work.

The socks Fletcher had christened finally came off some 24 hours later. They went straight in the trash, not worth salvaging. He showered for what felt like half an hour, shaved without really seeing the mirror, and dressed on autopilot. The whole time, the same reel played over in his mind.

So maybe he’d worded it badly. But she had to know that. He didn’t even know what she’d heard. Besides, they weren’t in that place anymore - the place where silence was how things ended. 

It wasn’t official, sure, but it wasn’t meaningless either. They were catching up, reconnecting. Okay, also making out like teenagers half the time, but they’d agreed: if something felt off, they’d say so. They’d talk. Be honest. Even if it sucked. So if she was really that mad, if this was some line she couldn’t uncross, she’d have said so. She wouldn’t just... disappear. 

Right?

She probably just needed time. Space. Time to think her way through whatever was going on in her head. He could give her that. He was giving her that. He wasn’t panicking, just giving her room. Like she’d want.

Tony nodded to himself, feeling a little better. That was maturity. Growth. The kind of thing they’d both been missing five years ago.

He didn’t even realise where he was driving until he found a parking space. Of course, the cafe. 

It was still out of his way in terms of a commute, but he went with Ziva most mornings for coffee and a pastry. The bear claws were the kind he dreamt about. It was an adjustment to his morning he hadn’t even realised had become routine until the first time he couldn’t go and he’d spent the whole day feeling like something was missing. 

Still, he knew Ziva, she’d be there, rain, hail or shine; in fact, he was early even by her standards. Come to think of it, that had potential. She usually arrived about a quarter hour later, he could get some caffeine in, get his thoughts straight and then she’d arrive like usual. They’d lock eyes, realise how silly it was and talk it out. Yeah, that’s what would happen. 

The pierced waitress was at the counter and smiled when she saw him. They rarely exchanged anything more than orders and polite one-liners, but the recognition was there. 

“Cappuccino, one sugar?” she asked expectantly, her hand hovering over the register. “No bear claws today, but the fruit danishes are back. Raspberry sound good?” 

“Sure does,” he agreed. “And a tall Americano, skim on the side with an almond croissant, but wait until...” 

She was already shaking her head, the small ring in her eyebrow catching the light. “Oh, no - sorry. She already came by. It looked like she’d been running, actually. I almost didn’t recognise her in workout gear.” Her tone was light, but Tony could hear the edge of curiosity in it. “But that was exactly what she ordered,” she added, quieter now. As if it might soften the blow.

Tony stopped cold. An early run. That was never a good sign. 

“Oh, uh, actually. She, uh...” he floundered, trying to hold onto the story he’d been telling himself the last day and a half, even as he could almost see it crumbling to pieces in his mind. “Yeah, she runs a lot, you know? Maybe just took a different route, or her usual trail was iced over or something. Totally normal. She does that sometimes. Guess she forgot to text me.”

The waitress gave a polite shrug. “Could be. So, just the cap and the danish then? To-go?” she asked gently, eyeing the line building behind him.

“Yeah,” he said, nodding, suddenly a little too fast. “Thanks.”

He barely registered. Still reeling. Still trying to fit this into the story in his head.

Ziva never showed up from a run sweaty. Her favourite trail was 20 minutes drive away. She’d drive to work first, shower and change there, then walk to meet him. It couldn’t have been yoga, again, she always changed before coming downstairs, plus, it was Tuesday, the Moms and Babies class ran that morning. 

She hadn’t just come here after a run. She’d come here early , before he could possibly arrive. That was the part that wouldn’t budge, no matter how he tried to reason around it.

It had been deliberate. 

He didn’t realise his order was ready until the waitress left the counter and waved it under his nose.

“Sometimes a run is just a run,” she said, gently. “Sometimes it’s running away. But you won’t know unless you’re at the finish line.”

She handed him the cappuccino and the bag. “Have a good day,” she added, already turning back to the counter.

Oh, good. Cryptic café wisdom with a side of foam art. Exactly what he needed. What the hell did that even mean?

Was he supposed to show up at her apartment? Her office? Follow her on an actual run like some weirdo pacing beside her with a Gatorade and a heartfelt apology?

Because there wasn’t a finish line where Ziva was concerned. At least not one he could see. A moving target at best. 

He didn’t know where she was going. That was the problem. He didn’t even know where they were anymore. The version of events he’d been repeating in his head - it was a misunderstanding that would be talked out soon - was unravelling fast.

The one thing he knew for sure? Ziva didn’t do anything by accident. 

She knew he’d be here. And she’d made damn sure she wouldn’t be.

He pushed through the café door, cappuccino too hot in one hand, paper bag crumpling in the other. The bell jingled behind him.

Wait at the finish line. Sure.

Just as soon as someone told him which way the damn race was going.

Or whether he was even still in it.

Chapter Text

By the time Tony had arrived at work, the low-grade level of shock that had settled in at the cafe had become irritation.

What he was mad at exactly was unclear. Or who. But it felt like the entire world was out to piss him off. Whoever had parked in his spot was a surefire contender. And maintenance for screwing with the heating was up there, too. Everyone sat at their desks, still in their outdoor gear, small puffs of steam escaping with every breath. It had been fine yesterday, but today felt like a deep freeze. 

Three minutes of audible shivering was all Tony could bear. He sent his team down to the gym, it was no better down there, but physical activity was bound to generate warmth, and at least the showers were hot. Besides, he had reports to approve that he hadn’t even looked at last night before he’d passed out. At least he could still type and scroll with gloves on, even if he couldn’t use his phone. 

That was probably a good thing. He had an entire mental catalogue of texts he would have sent to Ziva otherwise. 

Glad you made it to the cafe early. Wouldn’t want us being in the same space to ruin your morning coffee. 

Aaaand we’re back to letting one bad line ruin everything. At least we’re consistent. 

Ever get the feeling someone’s avoiding you? Signed, the idiot who just tried to buy a coffee you already had. 

Wow, two months. At least we managed six married before we stopped talking. I really should email Guinness World Records now. 

I assume “taking it slow” meant “go dark the second you feel something”, huh? Right. Got it. Sorry I tried. 

By the way, don’t worry, I found plenty to keep me busy after you left. Nothing like an all-night standoff to really cool the fires of passion. 

Thinking of the standoff reminded him to get back on track. He scrolled through the incident reports, reading each one thoroughly. Despite the lack of sleep, they’d done well; efficient, precise, and cohesive. He wasn’t sure his own recollection met the same standards, but he’d look at that later. 

He was trying to decide whether the statement “Victim exhibited acute emotional distress, triggering an involuntary sympathetic response from Probationary Agent Georgie Fletcher,” that Hanson had included in hers was just a little too tongue-in-cheek when he realised McGee had materialised downstairs and was making a beeline for his desk. 

“So, want to tell me what’s going on?” he asked, setting a cup of coffee down. Tony eyed the offering suspiciously, the branded sleeve obvious - it was from the cart in the yard. He and Ziva had relived some of the worst moments in their marriage over a cup of that coffee, and neither one had walked away and resorted to silence. Not that time, anyway. 

He didn’t reach for the cup. “Nope,” he replied, popping the P. 

“You’ve approved Agent Cooper’s report three times. I saw the pings.” McGee wheeled the chair out from behind Cooper’s spot and got himself settled opposite Tony. 

“So?” Tony shrugged. “It’s a good report. I reward good.” 

He sipped his own coffee without reservations or bad memories. “Something’s off, Tony. You were weird yesterday, too,” he said. “What’s up?” 

“You stand out in the cold all night, cordoning off a convenience store and convincing a guy who only cares where his next hit is coming from not to shoot the teenager he’s taken hostage, and then tell me you’re peachy the next day,” he grumbled. He left a note for Hanson to remove that passage. Technically true, but not case-relevant. He had a flicker of sympathy for Fletch if it was archived in print. 

“Or have you forgotten what that feels like in your cushy desk job?” he threw in, skimming the final paragraph. 

McGee shrugged lightly, refusing to take the bait. “I didn’t come down in that capacity, Tony...” he paused. Promotion or not, his mannerisms had changed little over the years. Tony could see the familiar expression forming - concerned, but trying not to be annoying. 

“You just looked like you could use someone to talk to.” He settled a little more firmly in the chair, holding his ground. 

“Don’t,” Tony replied, his jaw tight. “Take the sympathetic friend routine and go back upstairs where you’ve got lines you’re not supposed to cross.” 

“Fine.” McGee shifted in his seat, reaching for his hip and dropping his badge on the desk. “All off record. What the heck is up with you?” he insisted more firmly.  

“Nothing,” Tony repeated, trying to tell himself the same thing. “You want something to fix, go and have a word with maintenance about the way they’re trying to put us all in a state of hypothermia.” 

McGee didn’t budge. “I’d rather fix this,” he said. “I got a feeling I’ve seen this movie before... wasn’t a fan of the ending.” 

That was close enough to home to sting. “ You weren't a fan?” Tony muttered in spite of himself. “Get back to me when you’re the one being given the silent treatment for a second time.” 

“So it is Ziva?” McGee’s eyebrows raised in a bad imitation of surprise. “You’re still texting her then?” 

Tony glared at him. “Don’t act surprised. You’ve been wondering about it since you sprung us having coffee in the yard that day, and asking leading questions the whole time you’ve been interrogating me.” 

“I didn’t -”

“Oh, save it, McGee. You notice everything. That’s your schtick, right? Pattern recognition. So congratulations. We can’t stay away from each other, and we can’t get along when we’re together. Pattern confirmed,” he spat. 

He could feel the heat rising under his collar as he continued. “Texting, talking, seeing, kissing. The whole nine yards. Well, eight and a half. We were supposed to be taking it slow. Getting it right,” he reeled off, unable to stop himself now. 

McGee kept his face neutral this time. “Slow is good...” 

“Oh yeah?” he snorted, the bitterness he’d been simmering all morning rising in full. “Tell that to Ziva. Because apparently, it means running away the second something’s wrong. Leaving me standing in a cafe ordering a coffee she’s already been and gone with. Half an hour early just to avoid me. No texts, no calls. Nothing.”

Tony slammed the send command on his screen and shoved the keyboard back roughly. “You know something? We were actually okay this time. More than okay. We were talking about it, working it out. Laughing again.” 

He pushed back from his desk, not standing but no longer trying to play at being calm. “We had one rule, McGee. One. Talk. Use our goddamn words this time. Not - whatever the hell this is. And you know what the kicker is? I don’t even know why she switched on me. I keep replaying the whole thing in my head, and I still have no idea why she left. We weren’t even dating , you know? How do you screw things up that badly when you’re not even dating? I can’t even tell if I’m angry at her or myself anymore.” 

He looked away, jaw clenched so tight it hurt. “We weren’t supposed to do this again. That was the deal. No more assumptions. No more crashing and burning because neither of us would say the hard thing out loud. We were going to say the hard things.”

McGee was quiet for a moment, processing. “Maybe, she just needs...” 

“Space? Time? Patience?” Tony laughed bitterly. “Been there, done that, thanks McCupid. Now you’re defending her?”

He jabbed a finger at McGee. “You played Switzerland last time. Stayed so damn neutral you didn’t see what was happening. So don’t act like you know now.”

“That’s not fair-”

“No, what’s not fair is thinking we’d actually learned something. That we could handle it like adults. Maybe even get past this whole friends-who-kiss thing. And now she’s off the radar and I don’t even know what the hell I said wrong. So excuse me if I’m not in the mood for your coffee and your neutral third-party peacekeeping bullsh-” He stopped himself. Barely. “Just... don’t.”

McGee waited for a beat. “You done?” he asked evenly. His eyes flashed to his badge on the desk, apparently wishing he hadn’t taken it off. 

Tony gave a stiff shrug, his pulse pounding in his head. 

McGee leaned forward, voice quieter but firm. “You think I stayed out of it because I didn’t care? You and Ziva were the most private disaster I’ve ever seen. You didn’t let anyone in. You didn’t tell us you were engaged till you were married. I heard about Ziva losing the baby through rumours. I worked out you’d split up when you showed up without your ring. It wouldn't have made a difference whose “side” I took.”

Tony said nothing. 

“But I was still there. I saw what it did to both of you. So no, I didn’t pick sides, but I watched it happen. And now I know I’m watching it again.”

McGee stood, slowly, his badge still sitting on the desk between them. “So you're mad she's gone quiet. Fine. It sucks. I'll give you that. But you’re sitting here doing the same damn thing. You already know how it ends when you behave like this.”

Tony blinked, thrown. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means you’re staying just as silent, Tony. All this noise, all this anger, you're not saying anything that matters. And if you are, it's not where she can hear it.” He held Tony’s gaze, steady and unflinching, his words landing like a punch to the stomach. 

“You think you’re the only one hurting? Then go ahead and stay mad. Stay right here and keep pretending you’ve got nothing to say now. Keep telling yourself you didn't actually do something bad enough to piss her off. It’s your loss.” McGee shook his head. “And no, I’m not defending her either. But we both know her well enough to know it didn’t come out of the blue.” 

Tony swallowed uncomfortably.

“But don't be surprised when you end up sitting alone in your apartment, wondering what the hell happened. Again.” McGee gave a tight nod, stepping back. “Don’t talk to me about deals you and Ziva made if you’re sitting there breaking your end of the bargain, too.”

He picked up his badge, clipped it back on without another word, and walked out.

Tony didn’t move. Just sat there, blood still whooshing in his ears and an odd hollow ache where the anger had been. 

He hadn’t tried to contact Ziva, just stared at his phone and chickened out. 

He’d told himself he was giving her space. That she knew where to find him. That he’d learned from before. Now, all he could hear was McGee’s voice, blunt and echoing: You already know how it ends when you behave like this.

For the first time, he wasn’t sure if the silence between them was entirely hers.

Then, with a reluctant clunk and whoosh, the heating finally kicked in, too late to do any good.

Chapter Text

Tony dithered on going home that night, finding an extra hour’s occupation in going over his team’s reimbursement requests from the case two weeks ago that had seen them all spending the night in a scummy motel about three miles east of nowhere. They weren’t even due yet, but this way, he didn’t have to go home and sit with everything that had been said. Who would’ve guessed that McGeek had that much spirit in him? 

Still, the words had lodged somewhere in the back of his brain, repetitive and with a prick of guilt - maybe McGee was right. Even more irritating, because he had a sneaking suspicion that if he could analyse what he said to Ziva half as well, he’d know where to start in straightening this whole mess up. 

The next day got worse. The couch was no more comfortable the second night running. Then, he skipped the cafe, which always made his day feel unbalanced. Work didn’t improve matters. No cases, no emergencies, which any other day would be a good thing. Just paperwork and backlogged case files and lunch eaten at his desk like everything was normal. Ziva’s name didn’t come up - not that his team knew anything to ask. He answered emails, cracked a few tired jokes, and nodded through a briefing. Played the part. 

He drove home to an apartment beginning to show the first signs of neglect. Takeout containers sat on the kitchen counter. Mail he hadn’t opened. A jacket thrown over the back of a chair instead of being hung up. It was dark, except for the low glow of the TV, which had been playing a rotation of bad action movies that he wasn’t really watching. 

All the while, his brain kept running the same loop. 

What had he said? Or how had he said it? What the hell was he supposed to do now? 

How could he fix this? He wanted to, he realised that now. Sometime between McGee dressing him down and staring blankly at a movie he didn’t watch until he fell asleep the night before, when the last remnants of anger had fizzled out, it had come to him; five years, a handful of first dates that never became seconds, a handful more one-night stands that were just about sex, and one uncomfortably close call where the woman he brought home didn’t leave his apartment for three days... until her husband called to apologise, later - Ziva was the only one who’d ever felt like home. 

And now she wasn’t speaking to him. Again. 

He hadn’t called. Hadn’t texted. Hadn’t walked himself the few yards down the street to knock on her door. The facade of ‘giving her space’ he’d clung to had evaporated. The truth was, he didn’t know what to say. He just knew that this time, the silence was not what he wanted. 

He picked up his phone again, considering all the things he could open with, trying to work out which one was most needed. 

You okay?

Still too obvious.

I’m sorry. For whatever it was.

Too vague.

You didn’t even fight. That’s what hurts the most. 

Too vulnerable. At least until he knew she’d listen. He dropped the phone onto the couch beside him and scrubbed his hands over his face with another heavy sigh. 

It hadn’t even been a fight. Maybe that would have been easier. If, like last time, they’d shouted themselves hoarse and stared each other down. Called names and clenched fists. Let themselves be ugly and loud... but also, real. Something more explosive. More final. At least he’d know where he stood with her. 

That was the problem. Five years ago, he’d known. How to provoke her, how to get her to respond. Known without a doubt when she hated to even look at his face. But that was when they were married. That was when everything between them had been frayed and raw and desperate.

Now, they were trying to be something else. Something slow. Careful. Deliberate. All the things they hadn’t been the first time around and they still couldn’t get it right. He hadn’t felt like this when they broke up the first time.. Everything had been falling apart for so long, icy looks and long silences, the way they’d both come home every night too tired or too angry or too hurt to try anymore. Letting go had felt almost merciful.

This time, it felt more like a punishment. Or like turning a movie off right when the bad guy pulled his gun. Cut off right before the action scene. 

He missed her now. Wanted her. Still loved her, probably. He put that thought away fast. Honesty be damned, he wasn’t opening that can of worms yet. Not while she wasn’t even willing to be in a public place at the same time as him. 

God, if she would just say something. Snap at him. Call him out. Tell him he was a selfish bastard, or a thoughtless one, more likely. He could work with that. Even if the only thing left to do was accept defeat. The answer he didn't want felt more appealing than this silent limbo. 

He picked up the phone again. Maybe she’d talk if he actually phoned her. But then, it was talking that had led to this in the first place. So, an email would be better; he could edit that before he sent it. Like the myriad of texts he’d never typed the day before. 

Tony reached for the laptop, hesitating between his work and personal accounts. She’d be more likely to pay attention to his work address, but then those inboxes were always monitored. Personal it was. 

His thumb slipped on the trackpad, opening his drafts folder. Between the blank emails bearing only the recipient's address and forgotten, his eye caught one with a subject line.

He almost clicked past it, he didn’t even remember writing it. But something about the timestamp gave him pause; September 14, 2010. A month before it all imploded. Before the night she’d finally said she was done, and he’d had nothing left to say in return.

Well, he was supposed to be learning from the past, wasn’t he? Maybe what he’d said then would give him a launchpad to start now. 

Subject: For when you’re not busy hating me.

To: Ziva David

Date: September 14, 2010, 02:07

Draft – Unsent

Ziva, 

Well, since you’ve made it your life’s mission not to talk to me unless I’m actively bleeding, I figured this might be my only shot. But maybe bleeding would be more to your liking. I've seen you look at criminals with more compassion than you do me. 

I don’t know when exactly it became a crime to speak in our own apartment, but you’ve made silence into an Olympic sport. Congrats. Gold medal.

You don’t have to say it. I already know I’m not what you wanted. You look at me like I tricked you. But I’ve been this guy since day one, and you’re finally admitting you don’t like him. That’s not on me. Well, here’s a headline for you, Sweet Cheeks: You’re not shaping up the way I pictured either. 

I’d say “I miss you,” but I’m not even sure who I’m missing anymore. You stopped being the you I married months ago. 

Throw a lamp. Call me a bastard. At least then I’d know you still realise I’m here. Say something. 

Or don’t. You’ve always been good at that. 

- T

For a minute, he just stared at the screen, his pulse ticking faster, ears growing hot. Jesus, he’d been something else back then.

He remembered the silence. The cold. The way they passed each other like strangers in their own kitchen. He remembered how he’d blamed her for that silence, like she’d chosen it. Never mind how many nights he’d walked in the door and headed straight for the TV instead of saying hello. Never mind how much of his own anger he’d swallowed and stewed on, mistaking it for self-control. 

The venom between all of his words surprised him. It was so familiar in the way he felt now. The same barbed tone. The same bruised pride. It really was a good thing the heating had been out at work yesterday, and stopped him being able to text. There would have been no coming back from that. 

But this time was supposed to be different. They were supposed to be different. Older. Wiser. More mature. More communicative. 

Still, he hadn’t blown up. He hadn’t sent some bitter, self-righteous message, even if he’d thought them. He hadn’t made some joke that cut too deep just to make himself feel better for half a second. He was different now. At least, he was trying to be. Maybe that was what counted more than anything, not the screwups, but how he was going to handle them. 

He just needed a chance to prove it, and he could start by ending the silence. Nicely. 

He opened a new email before he could overthink it.

Chapter Text

Subject: A message to you

To: Ziva David

Date: February 25, 2016, 23:15

Ziva 

I don’t know if you want to hear from me. If this is the right thing to do. But I feel like if I showed up at your door right now, you'd shoot me before I made it to the front step. So this is safer. For both of us. 

Was that trying to be too funny already, the kind of thing that made it sound like he wasn’t being serious or taking a cheap shot? Tony paused and scratched his head. It was walking a fine line. But this was about being real. And he did deflect with humour when he was uncomfortable.

It could stay, but he decided he needed to at least try and keep that impulse in check for the rest of it.

I found this draft email. September 2010. You probably remember that month about as fondly as I do.

Back when we were over and just hadn’t admitted it yet. I don’t remember writing it. We’d probably had another silent not-fight and you were pretending to sleep while I hid in the lounge. I guess I never sent it. Probably the only smart move I made that month. 

His finger hovered over the Backspace key for a few seconds. Was it worth reminding her of how bad it had been? Yeah, if only to avoid it this time around. 

It wasn’t pretty I’ll tell you that. I blamed you for everything, like I wasn’t stomping around the apartment in silence every night and sulking too.

God he’d been unbearable back then. No wonder she’d hated him by the end. Hell, he’d hated himself. 

I don’t know why I’m even bringing it up except... I guess it scared me. Because I still recognize the guy who wrote it. That part of me is still there. The one who bottles everything up until it explodes. The one who wants to hurt before he can get hurt.

Tony read that line back three times. His stomach twisted. She’d take one look at that and run screaming, probably. Even if it was true, it didn’t do him any favours. 

He kept typing before he could second-guess it.

I don’t want to do that again, Zi. So this is me trying not to. 

But then you go silent and... no. No. 

See, this is what I said I wouldn’t do. Not gonna blame you because I don’t understand what happened. (Even if the way you shut down still makes me crazy.) 

He cringed at the whole passage. Would letting her see that he was actively trying not to make the same mistakes help? 

And that last sentence... Well, they had said they would say things, even when they sucked. And he really did hate it when she did that. 

Tony screwed up his eyes, as though blurring the text could soften the edges of the potential landmine in those few words. They’d stay, against his better judgment. All in the name of honesty. 

Speaking of honesty, he sighed, cracked his knuckles and kept going. 

I still want you. 

No. That got deleted. Too demanding. 

I still lo-

Hell no. His finger slammed backspace so fast he overshot and had to retype the last sentence as well, still questioning if it really should be there. He took a deep breath and tried again. 

I guess, what I’m trying to say is I still want to fix this. I’m still in. I thought we were doing better, doing all those things we said we would. Actually getting real about things.

He hoped she’d at least give him that much. Confirmation that it was right until it wasn’t. The urge to add “Or am I the only one who thought that?” took a second to ease, but was eventually passed over. This was about trying to make contact again, not hurling more passive aggressive accusations her way. 

And I guess that’s why I’m so confused now. Because you’ve gone dark and I was inches away from texting you all the same bitter twisted shit I said the night we broke up. It’s like we’re back where we were that Fall only this time, I didn’t see it coming.

More words that made him sound anything but likeable, not the kind of person she wanted - or deserved. Would the fact that she’d never received the texts count in his favour? 

I don’t know what went wrong that night. I mean... I thought you were just as sick of waiting as I was. I read it wrong and I’m sorry. But, I’m willing to wait as long as it takes till you are. 

Damn, that sounded like he was just sorry for suggesting they took it further, like the only thing he cared about was getting back into bed with her. Well, it wasn’t a lie, he did want to find that part of them again too, but it wasn’t the entire truth. He needed to clarify. 

I don’t just mean the sex. I mean everything. Us. In general. Because this silent avoiding each other thing is how it went down before, I thought that was the last thing we wanted. 

I don’t care how long it takes or how slow and awkward it is. Anything you need, however long it takes, I’ll do it.

His fingers grew faster and a little more confident in what he was writing now. This, he was sure of. Right now he’d take on God, fate, Mossad even if it meant getting this right for her. 

I just don’t want to go back to where we were then. We both have a good thing going in DC these days, even if it’s not together... and I’d hate for one of us to have to leave the country again you know?

Well, he’d made it this far into the email without another awkward joke. But they had always chuckled at the way they’d both run away after the divorce, he hoped she’d understand this one. 

You’d be proud of me, Zi. Haven’t touched a drop since you left that night. I’m doing things differently this time. I swear. I just... I want to know if you are too.

Wow, he hadn’t hesitated over that one at all. That was probably the most honest sentence in the whole damn email. He didn’t need to elaborate. If she knew anything about him, she’d know what that meant.

So please. If there’s anything. Any chance. Tell me and know I’ll fight for it. For you. 

Or even just let me know you read this. So I know I’m not shouting into the void again. Because this silence is killing me. 

Say something, please. 

He breathed out, relieved to have got most of it out in one go, more or less. He skimmed it quickly, a bit raw, a bit clumsy, but honest above all. It would do... it had to. He didn’t have another card to play right now. 

And even if, after all of that, if she still hated him, she was still done, he’d have to deal. This state of nothingness and hope was slowly driving him out of his mind. He wouldn’t like it, but he’d take it. At least then he’d know. 

He swallowed, and added one more line. 

Even if it’s just to tell me we’re over. 

Tony.

He leaned back into the cushions, leather creaking beneath him, the cursor still flashing next to his name.

Could something that never really started be over? It wasn’t like they’d ever called it anything, no grand proposal (hell, he hadn’t even proposed when they had been married), no date to mark on the calendar as an anniversary. Just two people drifting back towards each other, answering the same old gravity that pulled them in and swearing that this time it would be different. 

The draft email from 2010 still sat open, visible behind the one he’d just finished. He wondered why he’d never sent it. Maybe whatever spite he’d been feeling that evening had burned itself out with the act of writing and getting the words out was enough. Maybe he’d been afraid it would be the final straw, that once it was out there, something would break that couldn’t be fixed. Everything had come to a head a month later anyway. All he’d done was delay the inevitable.

Tonight’s email was better than the old one, as disjointed as it felt. He’d been honest and self-accountable. The kind of thing she used to say she wanted from him, what they both swore they’d get right this time.

He leaned on the track pad, ready to hit send, but somewhere between his brain and his finger a new thought struck - what if this was the last thing he ever sent her?

What if she read it, and said nothing, and the silence continued? Worse, what if she replied only to tell him they were through? 

And just like that, he knew. He couldn’t send this email either. Not tonight, maybe not ever. 

His stomach turned. Whatever takeout he’d choked down earlier, Pad Thai or Chow Mein or something else with noodles, had gone cold and heavy inside him.

All that effort. All those words. He couldn’t bring himself to hit send.

So many things had changed since that first email, but at the end of it all, he was still the same. Always waiting for someone else to make the call. Happier to sit in silence and unknowns if it meant not having to deal with the truth. 

Back when they were married, if Ziva hadn’t said she was leaving, would he have said anything at all, or would they have continued on in the same vicious cycle for longer? 

Some would call it perseverance. To Tony, it felt like cowardice. 

He let his hand fall away from the trackpad. The screen blinked with a popup. 

Message saved as draft. 

He gave a tired, disgusted snort and shut the laptop with a snap. Unsent, unresolved. Yeah, that sounded about right.

Chapter Text

Tony woke up on the couch, again. 

It was strange, really. All those last, frosty months of their marriage and neither one had given up the bed. Not once. They slept back to back in silence, turning in hours apart, because a simple goodnight had felt too loaded. The middle of the mattress had stretched between them, an uncrossable No Man’s Land. Like one of those trenches from his Dad’s Civil War reenactments, minus the bayonets, unless the sharpness of mutual resentment counted as a weapon. 

But now, Ziva wasn’t even here - hadn’t even spent the night once - and somehow he’d ended up on couch exile, too tired or apathetic to move as far as the bedroom. This was the third night in a row. He wondered at what point it stopped being an accident and started being a choice. 

At least he hadn’t fallen asleep sitting up, so his back ached, but not his neck. No blanket, but he’d bunched his jacket up in a half-assed pillow at some point, leaving creases he could feel in his cheek as he scrubbed his hand over his face. The TV was off this time... So yeah, probably a choice. 

The email he hadn’t managed to send the night before still weighed on his mind. Tony bent to pick up his laptop again, hesitated, then shoved it under the couch like that might put the whole thing out of reach. 

Shower, clothes, skip shaving, all on autopilot. He got halfway down to the parking garage before he realised where he’d been heading. The cafe. Not happening. He wasn’t sure whether seeing Ziva or not seeing her would be worse. 

Instead, breakfast happened standing up over the sink, the remains of last night’s takeout after a turn in the microwave and coffee he somehow managed to screw up, both too bitter and too weak at the same time. 

Outside the sky was heavy and grey, a perfect fit for his mood. The rain fell in a steady, frigid stream. Not significant enough to be a storm, just that miserable nonstop kind that snuck down his collar and chilled the back of his neck. Even the walk from his parking space to the front door of NCIS made him feel like the clouds had taken one look at him and gone “yeah, and fuck you especially.”

Inside, his first act was to send Hanson home sick. He’d been able to tell from the second the elevator doors opened that she was feverish. She hadn’t even really argued, and for her, that was more of a sign than anything. 

It was the first time he’d had an incomplete lineup with this team, and the difference was immediate. Hanson - much like when he’d been in her position - was the source of most of the activity, her quick sarcasm and energetic ideas had kept the bullpen moving. Without her, Coop and Fletch defaulted to silence and desk work, happy just to stay warm now that the heating was fixed.

Tony sat at his desk and did what he always did when he had something he didn’t want to think about - he worked. Cleared two reports. Approved inventory requests. Checked on a BOLO from last week - no hits. No missed steps. No mistakes. His hands knew the rhythm even if his head didn’t feel connected to it.

It turned out that the silence was not his friend, even if he had nothing to say. It was the kind that made his ears feel like they were ringing and let unwanted images creep back in. The unsent email. The blinking cursor.

He almost felt like his brain was caving in on itself. Not a physical headache, just an odd, foggy kind of hollow. Like his brain cells had decided it would be easier to shut down than to keep trying to fight off the spiralling thoughts. He didn’t blame them; he wouldn’t want to be stuck in his own head, either. The only difference was he had no choice. 

He didn’t even realise it had been over an hour since he'd last spoken until Abby appeared. Coop and Fletch had vanished - they'd probably gone for coffee. 

“Guess what I found!” she said brightly, already halfway to his desk before she stopped herself, hesitating just a second too long. “I mean, if you’re not too busy.”

Tony glanced up. Abby smiled, tentatively. Five months was not enough time for her to adjust to change. Of course, she still adored him (although her emails had been kind of prickly for a while) and had sworn there was no one else she’d trust in Gibbs’ seat besides him, but the new dynamic still hadn’t settled with her and Tony knew he was only receiving about 80% of the real Abby. 

“Always got time for you, Abs,” he repeated dutifully, if without enthusiasm. He’d heard Gibbs say it often enough, he knew what she’d expect. Some habits helped. Others were just so worn in you didn’t realise they were harmful till the damage had already been done. 

She opened her hand with a flourish. “Voila!” she declared, presenting a fancy black pen. 

He stared at it blankly for a moment until it settled on her palm. It was only when the initials on the clip - his own - became visible that he recognised it. 

She beamed, obviously pleased with herself. “You remember this, right? You threw a fit when it vanished. You practically accused Ziva of putting it in the document shredder.” 

Tony nodded. “Yeah, but that was years ago.” 

Seven or eight, if memory served. It was a good pen, and he’d loved it. Ziva had borrowed slash stolen it frequently; she liked it too. Allegedly, the last time, she’d grabbed it off his desk to sign off on a chain of custody for a box of evidence because hers had suddenly run dry. She’d said she put it straight back. He hadn’t seen it since. 

“No fits were thrown,” he added, tiredly. 

Abby shot him that look - the one that said she would recall the date, time and weather of the event if he dared her. “You all but took Ziva down to interrogation to get it out of her, and she never admitted to losing it. By the time you gave up, I think she was ready to throw it into the Potomac if it ever did see the light of day again, just to spite you,” she added. 

“Sure,” he gave a weak laugh. “That sounds like us.”

Abby narrowed her eyes, wondering about his tone, but carried on enthusiastically. “I found it in the evidence garage. You remember that cold case with the Navy Captain who was obsessed with antique typewriters and the fake suicide note written in eyeliner?” 

He nodded. “Vaguely.” McGee had practically swooned over the guy's office and the collection of vintage literature paraphernalia. 

“So anyway, I have this costume party this weekend, and it occurred to me that the eyeliner was the exact shade I wanted to match my outfit, so I went down there to run a swab through Major Mass Spec and find out what pigment it uses, and then match it to a...” 

“Abby,” he cut in wearily, not sure why he’d interrupted. At least her ramble muffled the swirl of thoughts in his brain. 

“Right, sorry.” She nodded, holding the pen out, cap first, as though offering him a blade. “It was right there in the box of evidence for that case. It must’ve been there this whole time. I couldn’t believe it. I remembered you basically tearing the place apart over this for like, a week. You said it wrote like a dream and had ‘the right kind of smug weight’ - which honestly is such a you thing to say.” 

He didn’t say anything, but he reached out and took it. It fitted into his hand the same way it had years ago. It was definitely his, as if the initials weren’t obvious enough; there was a dent near the top, worn in from repeated tapping on the edge of the desk when he was thinking. 

Ziva had sworn she hadn’t lost it, and he hadn’t believed her. It had turned into a whole thing, one of those minor spats that stuck longer than it should’ve, mostly because they’d both been convinced they were right. But that had been years before the marriage. Back when losing a pen had still felt like a big deal, when arguing was one of the easiest and most socially acceptable ways to get the other’s attention. He didn’t even remember how it had ended. They’d probably just forgotten about it with the next case - or Gibbs had slapped them both. 

Abby clapped her hands, pleased. “Mystery solved! I almost didn’t bring it back, I thought you wouldn’t want it after this long, I knew you’d gotten a new one anyway.” She pointed to his pen holder. “But then I figured maybe it was waiting for you to return, you know, closure? Anyway, you’re welcome. And now, justice is restored in the Kingdom of Stationery.”

“Good find.” Tony smiled faintly. He could feel that it didn’t reach his eyes. “Thanks, Abs.”

She lingered for a second, that same questioning, assessing look across her face, then took the smile at face value, or at least uncertain if she could still push for details like she might have before. “Okay, I’m going to go let McGee know the evidence room no longer contains criminally misplaced office supplies. See you later!”

Abby spun on her heel - he’d never understand how she didn’t break an ankle in those boots - and headed towards the stairs, leaving Tony with his pen and his thoughts. 

Closure, that had been the word Abby used. She’d been bright, cheerful, unaware of just how loaded that word felt for him right now. Like it was as simple as something that was lost being restored. It had been the whole point of those catch ups with Ziva, too. Closure: working out what had happened when they’d fallen apart, owning their mistakes and making peace with the wreckage. Neat, tidy, finished. Something they could move on from. 

It was never supposed to be whatever they’d spent the last two months doing. Dates-without-dating, learning each other’s routines, settling back into the same orbit, unofficially answering to each other again without ever even realising it. Getting pulled under again, even while they - (well, he anyway, he had no idea how Ziva felt anymore) swore they weren’t. 

He stared down at the pen in his hand. Without really thinking about it, he reached for a sticky note, flicked off the cap and dragged the tip across the neon yellow surface. Nothing. He tried again, pressing a little more firmly, a slow, purposeful scribble. Still nothing, the nib scratched across the paper, leaving nothing behind. Another message unsent. 

Tony leaned back in his chair and let the weight of it settle in. The broken pen in his hand. The silence in his inbox. The texts that never came, the ones he never sent. The drafted email, stuffed under the sofa as though hiding it could make the decision for him. 

Maybe he was waiting for a sign. Maybe he was just scared. Either way, he hadn’t tried, not really.

Neither had Ziva. 

Maybe closure wasn’t something tied up with a bow. No grand apologies or walking away with a new sense of purpose. Maybe it was something, no matter how old and familiar, just... giving up. 

He looked down at the pen again. It still looked the same. Still felt the same in his hand. But it didn’t work anymore. Didn't do the one thing it was supposed to do.

Kind of like him and Ziva, really.

Chapter Text

Fletch and Cooper barrelled back into the squadroom, their laughter faintly cutting through the fog in Tony’s head as he continued to gaze at the pen. 

They stopped as they rounded the partition, their footsteps slowing as they neared his desk. 

“Whoa... Boss... is everything okay?” Fletch asked. Her voice was cautious, a little higher than usual. 

Tony didn’t answer right away. The pen was still in his hand. 

“My pen ran out of ink.” The words came out flat. Far away. Like someone else had spoken them.

Fletch hesitated. “So... Do you need a new one?”

He capped the pen slowly, deliberately, like it was something he’d meant to do all along, then slipped it into his jacket pocket.

“No. I have another.”

“Oh... okay?”

Tony clocked the glance she gave Cooper - quick and uncertain - before she backed off. Cooper just raised his brows and shrugged.

They returned to their desks without another word.

He didn’t blame them. They weren’t idiots, they just didn’t know him well enough, still figuring out when to push and when to let something slide. They could tell something was off, only there wasn’t the all-night stakeout to blame this time. They probably assumed it was something personal, but not the kind of personal they could ask about.

That was a relief. He wouldn’t have known what to say. They didn’t know about Ziva, anyway. 

But he was the boss, it was his job to keep things moving. Set the tone. It was Friday, six more hours till the weekend, assuming no one died. Even if there was no open case, the weather sucked and they were dragging through deskwork with Hanson out sick. It wasn’t broken without her, just quieter, a little off balance. Definitely less funny. 

They needed more work to solidify their partnerships as duos, not just a quartet. That was something he could work with. Something he could plan. Team-building exercises that split them up in every possible combination and figure out the weak links. Especially to break up Fletch and Hanson, better known as the evil twins. As good as they were, they needed to be good with everyone, and Cooper’s tolerance for being the butt of all of their pranks had to give out sometime. 

Work, DiNozzo. Keep things moving.

He wondered, not for the first time that day, if Ziva was pushing her team harder than usual. That was her thing - crack down, get sharp, get efficient. It was how she avoided... well, feeling.

Well, that made two of them. Tony forced his attention onto the screen. 

The hours blurred. Tony kept things moving - barely. He signed off paperwork when it was needed - the weight of the dud pen seemed to burn a hole in his pocket every time he reached for the replacement - gave instructions, and even cracked a weak joke. 

He sat through a video of Bark Twain (Cooper’s dog, who was basically Cooper in canine form, huge and intimidating to look at, but unwaveringly loyal and good-natured... and just a little bit slow) performing his newest trick. 

Bark had learned to play dead, with the cue “NCIS freeze!” The enormous Newfoundland would dramatically flop to the ground, then lie on his side, tail thumping, waiting for praise. 

“Incredible,” Tony said, deadpan.“More obedient than most criminals.” 

If anything was lacking in his compliment, Coop didn’t seem to notice, beaming as widely as a parent presented with their toddler’s first finger painting. 

On the screen, Bark bounded upright, knocked over a potted plant and then jumped onto the couch, dirt and all. The video had ended with Cooper's desperate plea for Bark to get down, who obliged by seizing the remains of the plant and bolting away. 

Coop rushed to shut the video off, explaining that Bark was still learning. Fletch laughed so hard her soda came out her nose. Tony sighed, threw her a pack of Kleenex and got back to work. 

He probably scheduled too many training days, Vance or McGee would have something to say about taking the MCRT offline that often, but he’d fix those on Monday. The point was that he looked busy now. 

Other than the video break, Fletch and Cooper more or less kept themselves occupied. They stayed in their lane, quiet, but not weirdly so. Once they seemed to work out that Tony wasn’t going to reprimand them, or join in, they settled into their own conversations. 

Tony was grateful for that, and also that Hanson was out. First, it had pointed out a weakness within his team, and that was actually something he needed to work on. Two, she would have been the quickest to note that sometimes, he was just staring at his screensaver even while his hands stayed in the typing position. A little older, a lot more world-wise and just all around less bashful than the other two, she would have absolutely called him out on it. 

His phone stayed quiet.

It shouldn’t have felt like a surprise. They hadn’t defined anything. They’d kept it light on purpose. Tony kept telling himself he should have expected it all to come to an end, however anticlimactic. But no matter what they’d called it or how it had fizzled out, it still felt like a breakup. It had settled in his chest and made everything feel a little off-centre. Even if it didn’t come with shouting or blame, it hit just as hard. 

He felt sick. Not the sick he’d sent Hanson packing with earlier in the day, just off. That faintly nauseous round the edges sense of hunger without being hungry, that came from sleeping and eating like he was back in college; the days blurring together, too much grease and salt and all of it tasting like cardboard. He hadn’t been this messed up the first time she’d left, if anything, he’d found a better, sharper routine than he’d had before. 

But, back then, he’d been relieved. That said enough, didn’t it? He’d been angry, sure, but mostly numb. Too many things had broken between them by the time they were done, and walking away had felt like dropping a weight. Five years later, the weight was back, heavier than before, even when everything felt empty. Empty in all the places he’d find her, and not just the cafe and his apartment, but the way he’d somehow know when his phone buzzed that it was her and the way he’d listen to the joke Fletch was cracking to recall later on, just to make her laugh. 

It didn’t matter that it was supposed to be casual. That they weren’t even technically anything again. It hadn’t stopped him from wanting more - even if he hadn’t worked that out till it was too late. As far as he was concerned, when it came to Ziva, there was no such thing as too much. Unless it was silence. 

Now he just wanted to fix it. More than anything. But he couldn’t. His head throbbed from holding it together all day. His eyes burned. He wasn’t even tired in a way sleep could fix, just worn out, somewhere deep down. The kind of tiredness that came from grief. From holding onto something too long and then realising it was gone. 

Did he even have the right to call it grief? He was probably being dramatic. Well, whatever it was called, it hurt like hell.

Although a case would have been a welcome distraction, Tony was relieved when they got through the day without one. None of them really felt like facing the weather, even to get home. The low, steady rain had become a downpour and outside had gone from uncomfortably dreary to just plain awful. He offered Fletch a ride, she took the Metro most days and even in this weird semi-conscious state, he realised public transport would suck. 

Fletch had hesitated before accepting, torn between door-to-door service and being in a car with him after the odd, silent day at work. The drive was unmemorable, if awkwardly quiet. She had her belt unbuckled before he’d even pulled to a complete stop and didn’t linger before all but bolting to her door. 

From her apartment block, he found himself taking another detour, an office supply store a few blocks away from home. He stood beneath the flickering lights, staring at the rows of pen refills, reading each label carefully. Not that he needed to check which ones to get, he already knew exactly. It just took several minutes before he even realised why he was there. 

Right when he realised a clerk was approaching, radiating helpful energy, he yanked a packet off the stand and headed for the counter. He told the cashier to keep the change and told himself repairing the old pen didn’t mean a thing. He wasn’t even convinced he would, they fitted the new pen too, after all. There was nothing wrong with being prepared. 

Another detour, to the Chinese place that always had soggy egg rolls, but where he didn’t doubt that the kung pao chicken was made with chicken. He wasn’t hungry, but he knew he should eat. The rain had slowed some as he arrived home but he parked in the street. The underground parking lot for his building almost certainly had an inch of standing water in it now - old building, old drains.  

That was when he saw her. 

Ziva, two doors down - he’d both forgotten and never let go of the fact that she lived so close now - standing on her front steps, leaning back under the awning, out of the rain. She was talking to a guy he remembered from her building. 

For less than a second, he had a flicker of doubt, had she already moved on? His brain clocked the body language a moment later, casual, distant. Just small talk. He cursed himself for even wondering about it, no need to salt open wounds with jealousy and paranoia.

But still she looked... normal. Fine, even. Like she’d slept, and eaten and generally followed her usual schedule. Her hair was pulled back tighter than he’d ever seen it, sharp lines, neat coat buttoned to her neck, zero trace of fatigue. Not glowing, not exactly happy, but steady. Put together. Like none of it had touched her.

She paused, then turned like she sensed something. Looked straight at his car. She always knew. 

Their eyes met for half a second. A flash of recognition, he knew she saw him, even through the droplets on his windshield, he saw her breath catch. Then, she went blank. 

Ziva turned toward the door as the person beside her popped an umbrella, and by the time they stepped away, she was already gone.

Chapter Text

Ziva looked okay. The thought rattled around in Tony’s head as he picked his way through the puddles on the sidewalk and made it upstairs. The apartment still felt cold, even though the thermostat still said it shouldn’t be, but he turned it up a couple of degrees anyway. He kicked his shoes off, but left his coat on, at least until the heat picked up. His gun went in the safe - some things never left no matter how messed up his head was. 

He ate without tasting it - soggy egg rolls and all - still thinking it over. Five seconds, maybe less. That was all it had been. Long enough to know she’d seen him. Long enough to see that it didn’t change anything. He hadn’t expected a smile, or even a nod, but he had expected something.

Instead, she’d given him nothing. Not surprised. Not the purposeful freezing out he remembered from the tail end of their marriage. Not even awkward. 

But she still looked fine. 

It wasn’t like he wanted her to look as bad as he felt, either. He was angry, sure, but he wasn’t a complete asshole. Still, some sign that the past four days had been hard on her too would've been something, that he’d left any kind of a mark... or meant half as much to her as it had to him. 

Back when the worst of the divorce resentment had dulled and he was six months into Naples, he’d sometimes imagined what it would be like to see her again. And once he set aside the dramatic fantasies involving guns and yelling - although, ironically, those were the ones that had come true - he’d figured reality would probably land somewhere quieter. Civil. Polite. Not strangers, but not friends either. Nodding acquaintances. Maybe a “hey” if they passed on the street.

Well, they were there now. Maybe he’d been right all along; they were always going to end up like this. The reconnection and understanding, and making out had all just been a detour on their way to the inevitable. Two separate people who once shared everything, but now had nothing more than a city in common. 

He threw the empty container in the trash and made a half-hearted attempt at gathering the ones that had built up throughout the week. He got as far as making a pile before he gave up. There weren’t enough dishes to warrant running the dishwasher, but he wasn’t quite so far into needing to keep busy that actually washing the handful of cutlery and old coffee mugs was appealing yet. 

Something dug into his chest as he sank back onto the couch to turn on yet another movie he wouldn’t pay attention to. He discovered it was the dried out pen. Of all the days for that to turn up, it would be the one where he realised that this time, they were done for good. 

He tossed it onto the coffee table with a sigh. The pen rolled and settled, coming to rest against the packet of refills he hadn’t even wanted to buy. He had a new pen anyway - same make, same ridiculous price tag - and not everything that was broken could be made right again.

God, didn’t he know that? He was living proof. But still, it gave him something to do with his hands instead of the restless drumming on his thigh he hadn’t even been aware of till right that second. 

It was as practised as disassembling his SIG; unscrew the body, toss out the old cartridge, and replace it with a new one. He didn’t even need to think. The years in storage hadn’t hurt the thing. The way it fitted back together, smooth with just the lightest satisfying whir of friction as the threads aligned and the glint of the 24k gold trim were still like new. 

He pulled a crumpled receipt from his pocket to test it out. Two quick swoops to warm up, and the dark blue ink ran, the same clean, flowing lines he’d always liked, the exact smug weight he’d ranted about for days when it had gone missing. He signed his name, just to see how it felt; it rolled off the NASA-designed ballpoint perfectly. It was probably a marketing gimmick, but it was still a good pen. That was why Ziva had stolen it so often. 

All it needed was a refill. A little bit of TLC and a new part. If only everything were that easy. Suddenly, it didn’t feel like so much of a win, just a reminder that some things could be fixed because they weren’t complicated. 

But was it complicated this time around? Really? If he was actually honest with himself? 

He dropped it and leaned back against the couch to think it over. There hadn’t been a steady decline, no job changes, no long, silent nights, choking on a dozen things he wanted to say, no hours-long argument that had stripped them to the bone, no resentment or spite. Just that sudden freeze, the expression on her face, more disappointed than angry and then... nothing. He put his foot in it and she’d left. Pretty simple, really. 

But it didn’t feel simple either. Because if it was that simple, he wouldn’t have been replaying it in his head, trying to work out what had changed between pulling off his sweater and the moment she walked out the door. 

It wasn’t like he’d asked her to move in, or elope all over again. He’d just meant stay the night. He knew he hadn’t pushed for more than she wanted. Maybe the request was a little too selfishly motivated but he knew her body too well by now to pretend she didn’t feel the same. She wanted to stay. He’d felt it. He’d heard it.

What had she said? “If you had said anything else, I would have said yes.” But why hadn’t she? He closed his eyes, thinking harder, past her cool, precise delivery. 

“I didn’t mean it like that.” His standard, automatic response. He didn’t even know what he hadn’t meant at that point, just that backpedalling was probably the best option. 

He slowed down, walked himself back through it again, like piecing together a crime scene. She’d been all in till she hadn’t. She wanted to stay but didn’t, and it all hinged on his invitation to do just that. 

Lightning finally struck. It wasn’t because he’d asked, but how.

He’d been trying to make it light, to match the tone of all their previous get-togethers. Nice in the moment, but nothing more committed. That’s what they’d both agreed on. Don’t rush. Don’t repeat the old mistakes. And till then, they’d done great. 

So the real question now: What had she heard? To him, one little relapse had sounded like a getaway. Permission to forget for a few short hours. To just... be who they were before. 

Tony groaned and buried his face in his hands. Before. The people who had hidden from the outside world until it crashed in anyway. Who burned so white hot in both their passion and their anger that they imploded under the intensity. Who didn’t care about outcomes as long as the now felt good. 

Yeah, that’s exactly what he sounded like. Reckless, impulsive, stupid. 

But it hadn’t been reckless, not this time. He’d meant that he wouldn’t hold it against her if it was a one-off, that she couldn’t promise anything more serious than the next few minutes. She hadn’t heard his intent, or all the unspoken words, only the offhand, horny invitation to stay longer, falling out of his mouth like a punchline, like he was okay with going backwards. 

And hadn’t that always been the issue? When things got too real, he deflected. Covered the feelings before anyone - himself included - could understand what was really growing at the heart of it. 

So instead of hearing “It doesn’t have to mean anything right now,” she’d heard “Let’s do all the same stupid shit we did before.” 

Instead of trust and patience, he’d offered her the same crash and burn they’d lived out before. 

He’d wanted an answer. Well, now he had it. However much it sucked. 

But as crappy as it felt, knowing that this time he’d really screwed things beyond redemption, he understood. If he’d been in her place, he would have walked, too.

Chapter Text

Tony didn’t sleep. Not from lack of exhaustion - he was tired to his bones - but from the kind of wired, restless ache that came on the back of midnight clarity with no way to change it. His body wanted to shut down, but his mind kept circling the wreckage. 

He stayed on the couch, waiting to pass out as he had the last few nights, but it never happened. Instead slumped there, in a looping circle of useless thoughts. Replaying those same few seconds over and over. 

What he should have said. What she needed to hear. If it would've helped at all, or if saying the right thing then would only have delayed the fallout over a new topic by a few more days. 

The couch got uncomfortable, or maybe that was because he’d been staring at the ceiling for 45 minutes. He wandered down to the hallway and considered the bed, still freshly made and untouched since the morning he’d gotten up and made plans to see her for what turned out to be the last time. He didn’t go in. His skin prickled at the thought of trying to relax. 

He gave up and sat on the floor for a while, scrubbing his hands through his hair as though it might clear his mind enough to sleep. No joy. The fridge called, he twisted the top off the lone beer that had been sitting all week, caught himself before he fell into that black hole again and poured it down the sink. He made coffee instead and didn’t drink that either. 

Sometime, between a few more laps of the kitchen and sinking back onto the couch, still not comfortable but his legs couldn’t take any more, it began to sink in. 

It was over. The second chance to make things right with Ziva - the one he hadn’t even realised he’d wanted till now - was gone. She hadn’t called, she wasn’t going to come walking through the door and say she’d cooled off. Finished. Kaput. Done. 

He nursed that realisation for a long time, prodding the wound every so often to see if it still hurt. It did. Slowly, though, even if it didn’t get any less shitty, it did start to make room for something else. Not peace, he was still far too edgy for that, but a dull kind of understanding. It had been good, but now it wasn’t. That was all there was to it. 

He’d work it out, maybe not in one go, but he would. He’d never planned on a life with Ziva when he’d come back to DC anyway. It was time to get back on track. It hurt more this time around, but a sudden loss of all hope instead of six months of resentment and then six more months waiting for a divorce would do that. At least this was a clean cut. 

By the time the sun was beginning to creep up, he’d run out of steam. He wasn't sure if it was acceptance or just that he was tired. Christ, he would kill for a coffee and not the cold, abandoned mug still sitting by the sink. 

It occurred to him vaguely that he’d have to leave the apartment for that, and he staggered to the bathroom, his knees protesting after hours locked in the same position. A glance in the mirror told him he had to shower first. At least put on a game face, even if his chest still ached and he wasn’t quite sure which was up. 

He turned the water up as hot as he could bear, letting the steam rise and trying to feel human again. The water hitting the tiles reminded him of the rain the day before, Ziva standing on her front steps, the way she’d barely even reacted when they made eye contact. 

Ziva had looked fine. And if she could, so could he... even if he had to fake it for a while. 

He got dressed with no real plan, but somewhere between pulling on a shirt and finding his keys, he made a decision. He’d go to the cafe. Not because it had anything to do with Ziva, just because he really liked the coffee. 

They were adults who respected each other, even if they didn’t get along romantically. They could get their caffeine fix at the same place without starting World War III. Besides, she probably wouldn’t even be there. 

And if she was? Well, that wasn’t a thing anymore. 

By the time he made it to the cafe, whatever had possessed him in the shower had faded some. This seemed like a bad idea. But he was here now, and the need for caffeine was even greater than before. Besides, if Ziva was inside and saw him turn around without even going in, that would just make him look like an idiot. He had to go through with it. 

He didn’t look around as he entered. He wasn’t about to go scanning the room like some tragic lovelorn movie character. 

It was early enough that the cafe hadn’t started the music yet, and there was only one person ahead of him. As he reached the counter, there was that same prickle on the back of his neck, the one he’d had outside the warehouse - oh yeah, Ziva was there, alright. He didn’t turn around. It didn’t matter, he was just here for the coffee. 

“Hey, stranger,” the waitress with the eyebrow ring greeted him with her usual perky smile. “Tall cap with one!” she called over her shoulder to the barista. Without asking, she reached for the pastry cabinet to fish out a bear claw. 

“Thanks.” He offered her a tired smile and presented his card. “You don’t normally work Saturdays,” he commented, just for the sake of making small talk that felt normal. 

“You don’t normally skip two days in a row.” She smirked back, then shrugged a little. “I’m saving to go to Mexico in the summer. Celebrate surviving another year of college. I’ll take all the shifts I can get,” she explained. 

“Huh, nice.” It was still quiet, no one waiting behind him. As he put his card back in his wallet, he fished out a twenty. “Here, first drink is on me when you get there.” He handed it straight to her, bypassing the tip jar, grateful for the sense of normalcy she’d offered. 

“Thanks,” she tucked the note into her apron pocket. “What’s this... some kind of parting gift?” 

“Yeah, maybe.” He shrugged. “Not sure everyone’s so happy to see me.” Now that he’d proved he could, it didn’t mean he needed to keep doing it. 

“Hey, anyone who tips like this is welcome in my eyes.” She turned, taking his drink from the barista. “You’re allowed to drink to-go orders in here, you know,” she added as she handed it over. Tony could tell she was fishing for details. 

His face twisted into an involuntary grimace. Joining Ziva was out of the question, but sitting anywhere else in the room seemed just plain awkward. “Nah, I think my dine-in days are done. Not much fun eating alone.” 

“Ahh.” Her eyes flashed behind him. From the direction alone, Tony could tell Ziva wasn’t at the table they’d unofficially designated as ‘theirs’. “Sometimes a fork in the road just means both travellers need a second to work out where they’re headed. It doesn’t mean they won’t end up in the same place later on.” 

Well, that was somewhat less cryptic than her usual. Tony didn’t even need to translate to human to understand what she was getting at. 

“Do you always talk like you ate a bag of fortune cookies, paper and all?” he chuckled. “But no. Keeping with your travel blog theme... that bridge has been burned.” 

“Maybe it has.” She shrugged, straightening the napkin holder. “But, there’s still someone waiting on the other side.” 

Tony shook his head and picked up the bag with the bear claw in it. “I admire your optimism, but no, this time there’s not. But what’s your name, or do I just keep calling you the Pierced Oracle?” 

She grinned and shook her head. "I'm Fern. You're Anthony. I saw it on your credit card." 

"My friends call me Tony,” he corrected automatically. “...Fern.” He chuckled softly to himself. 

Fern. Deliverer of cryptic but oddly insightful wisdom. Pierced eyebrow (and about half a dozen in each ear), purple eyeliner and a pixie cut that reminded him of Director Shepherd but with one strangely long plait over her ear and an “I styled this to look like I didn’t style it” edge. At least three layered bead necklaces, one with a crystal pendant, and a woven leather bracelet that she’d probably traded during a drum circle or a group meditation. She looked like she believed in Mercury being in retrospect or however the saying went, ate quinoa for fun and bought vinyl records unironically - then judged you for not knowing the B-sides. She probably smelled like patchouli underneath all the coffee and toast. Fern. She could never have been called anything else. 

“But,” Fern continued, her eyes fixing on a point just past his shoulder. “This time I wasn’t talking in code. Tony, turn around.” 

He shot her a puzzled look, but her eyebrows - small silver ring and all - raised insistently. 

Tony turned. 

Ziva stood right behind him. 

And suddenly, this close up, he could tell she wasn’t fine.

Chapter Text

For a second, Tony stood frozen, not able to make his mouth - or the rest of him - do anything. He’d just come to terms with the idea that Ziva probably didn’t want anything to do with him and now she was standing in front of him, by choice, in a situation where she’d have every excuse to ignore him. 

It was only this close that he noticed the details he’d missed through his windshield the day before. Her hair was pulled back in a tight, severe bun, the kind she usually only wore in high-stakes combat situations and complained gave her a headache by the end of the day. Her eyes were bloodshot - she’d been crying, he realised with a guilty jolt - and the darkness underneath told him she’d been sleeping just as poorly as he had. One hand was clenched around her coffee mug, and her knuckles were scuffed - she’d done most of her ‘thinking’ in the gym again. Every part of her looked wound tight, stretched almost to breaking point. 

Ziva didn’t say anything for a minute either, her eyes wary, studying his face as though assessing the damage that had been done. 

“Tony,” she said softly, at last. “I think we should talk.” 

It took him a second. His gut reaction was a sarcastic “About time.” Four days of silence, and she’d picked now? Instead, he swallowed the urge and nodded dully. “Okay.” 

Neither one of them moved. 

Behind the counter, Fern shifted her weight a little as a new customer entered; they were standing right in the service area. “I’ll turn the music on,” she said in a low voice, “Give you some cover.” 

He glanced over his shoulder briefly. “Thanks, Fern,” he mumbled. She nodded, eyes already on the new patron. “So... lead the way,” he added to Ziva. 

She turned stiffly, that same tightly measured walk she used before heading into briefings or meetings with her father and wove her way towards ‘their’ table. Tony wondered who’d need the quick exit the kitchen offered first: him or her. 

“Fern?” she murmured in a low tone once they were out of earshot. “Really?” 

“I know,” he laughed softly, in spite of how everything else inside him felt. “But it suits her, right?” 

Ziva’s mouth twitched, not quite a smile, but an improvement on the tense way her lips had been pursed before. “It does.” 

She slid into her usual seat slowly, setting her cup down with great care. Tony did the same. The table was solid as always, but just now it felt like it was a house of cards, like even breathing too hard would bring the whole thing crashing down. Or maybe that was just the tension between them. Whatever spark of shared humour they’d found a second ago was already snuffed out, replaced by an uncomfortable, weighted silence. 

Neither one said anything. Ziva placed her hands on the edge of the table, fingers splayed like she was bracing for impact. Tony tried not to fidget - she was already strung out, and he knew it irritated her when he did. 

By the time he was on the verge of sitting on his hands just to keep them still - in reality about ten seconds, but felt like an hour - Ziva still hadn’t spoken, still just studying him with that same, exhausted but too-alert gaze. 

“Well,” he said finally, clearing his throat. “You look like I feel.” 

She didn’t blink. “How is that?” she asked cautiously. 

He could barely find the words to describe it to himself, never mind someone else. “Like... I haven’t slept properly in days, the world as I know it stopped turning, and I’m about one breath away from saying something stupid,” he said. “But sober. So that’s a plus. You?” 

“Much the same.” Her eyebrows raised slightly, surprised at his honesty. “Yesterday... you looked... rough.”

“I felt it... You looked fine.” 

“I was not.”  

“Oh.” He hesitated. “But look... you’re the one who left. The ball’s in your court here,” he said, surprised at the sharpness in his voice. Two days ago he’d have paid his life savings to have a chance to talk it out. Still, now, face-to-face, after a night thinking it over, including probably never seeing her again, he felt more cautious, unwilling to put anything on the line and have it shot down all over again.

“I know,” she said. Her hands tightened on the table. “That was not fair on you. I am sorry.” 

“Thanks.” Tony nodded slowly, taking that in. “It wasn’t,” he agreed. “But I wasn’t really fair to you either, what I said. I get it. You thought I wanted all the bad things that ruined us in the first place.” 

“Yes,” she replied. Her voice shook a little. “I did not want to walk away, but... If that is what you want, I cannot go through that again.” 

He shook his head. “I don’t. I just meant to make it easier for you to stay, if you wanted.” 

“You do not have to fix things for me. You know that,” she reminded him, her gaze unimpressed. Then she softened a little, although her hands remained on the table. “I was about to tell you I wanted to stay, but then you said that. It scared me. But, last night... today, I suppose, I realised that you probably meant something different and I should try and hear you out.”

So she had known. He tried not to let the relief - or the vindication - show on his face. 

“But you didn’t call?” 

“I did not think you would want to talk to me.” Ziva looked down at her hands. “That was the one thing we had agreed we would do this time, we would talk. I broke my end of the agreement when you had really done nothing wrong. Pride is hard to swallow sometimes. I convinced myself that it was too late to call, and not just because it was four am, but because you would be too angry with me. You did not call, either,” she added, the slightest raise in her brows. Not accusing, just asking.

“Yeah, well I was giving you space... and then it seemed like you didn’t want to hear from me..” He shrugged, trying not to let her see how raw that still felt. “I thought you’d call when you cooled down, and then when you didn’t...” he shrugged and let it go unfinished. “Not that there was anything to break off... but I figured you were mad enough to be done with whatever it was we were doing. Thought of plenty of things I wanted to say. Full disclosure, a lot of them weren’t very nice.”

Ziva nodded. “I suppose I would have deserved them,” she said, her voice low. “But I am not done, Tony. I never wanted it to be over,” she said. “When I realised drawing that line meant I would not see you anymore, I was more sad than angry. Breaking up again...” She paused and shrugged, the term sufficing for lack of a better one. “I never wanted that. If our terms are different, I still want to be with you.” 

Tony swallowed hard. He’d spent hours trying to accept it was over when he didn’t want it to be, and all the while, she’d been doing the same. Even apart, they were in sync. Just like that, things shifted again. 

“I’m not done either,” he said, finally. “I want to make things right with you. But I can’t...” he paused. “I mean, if I’m in, and I am... It’s not a halfway thing anymore...” he ran his hands through his hair and stared at his coffee, looking for what he wanted to say without scaring her off entirely. The flecks of foam clinging to the rim didn’t help. 

Ziva’s hand landed halfway across the table, catching his attention. He lifted his eyes.

“You cannot keep pretending that it does not mean something?” she finished for him. “That this has become more than catching up?” 

He let out a breath. There it was. What he hadn’t let himself name. Not out loud. He nodded, tired and relieved. “Yeah, that,” he agreed. “I’m in deeper than I realised, Zi.” 

Ziva didn't answer him right away, but the tension in her shoulders eased. “Well,” she said slowly, “That makes two of us.” 

For a moment, the world seemed to deflate around them. Not crushing or ominous, just the tension and the sense of being on trial he’d felt trickling away. Instead, it was replaced by the quiet relief of feeling that once more, he and Ziva were on the same page again. 

“Okay,” he said, nodding. “That’s... that’s good.” 

Ziva looked like she might have smiled if she weren’t so tired. “It is. Crazy, perhaps. But good.” 

He swigged from his coffee again. “So... Do you want to go first, or should I?” 

Ziva’s brow furrowed. She didn’t answer right away, and he thought about walking it back. Making a joke. Saying he meant something else. But that would only make it worse, and he knew she hated when he backtracked with humour when he got uncomfortable.

Instead, he waited until she spoke, still a little guarded, “Go first with what?” 

He heard the warning note in her voice and thought before he spoke. “You know... what I said, what I meant. Why you left? I thought that was the point? Because you wanted to sort it out?” 

Ziva blinked - possibly for the first time since she’d appeared behind him at the counter. When her eyes opened again, he saw the absolute exhaustion he felt in himself. “Now?” she asked mildly. 

When she said it aloud, he realised how insane it sounded. If the expression on her face was anything to go by, the last 24 hours hadn’t been any better for her. It felt like a miracle they hadn’t already wound up yelling at each other or passed out on the table. 

“Well yeah,” he said. “I thought that’s what we were doing now. You admit you were wrong, I admit I was wrong... we work out how we’ll get it right next time. I was all psyched to be self-accountable.” 

Ziva shook her head. “As much as I’d like to hear your self-accountability, not while we are half asleep and barely caffeinated. I do want to talk about it, we need to. But, now would do us more harm than good.” 

She yawned, as though proving her point. “I had to take the chance and approach you... A call can be sent to voicemail, a text deleted. At least, if I was there in front of you, I had a chance that you would hear me out. But the longer we sit here, the more I think neither of us is in the right place to properly have that discussion and gain something from it.” 

She had a point. The coffee was delicious, but it wasn’t helping his mind - although the emotional 180 he’d taken this morning probably wasn’t helping either. The odds of him saying something that pissed her off truly beyond redemption, felt incredibly high right now. 

“Okay... so we’re just, what? Putting a pin in it?” 

“Exactly.” Ziva nodded. “We know that being together is still something we both want; that is enough for now. This is not ignoring it or distracting ourselves. We will come back to it when we are ready. Once we have slept - were you up all night?” 

“Yeah,” he agreed. “You?” 

“More or less.” She drained her coffee - he could tell it was cold from the look on her face. The cup went to the side - no refills required. She leaned across the table a little, adding weight to her next words. “Tony, would you come home with me?” 

Tony leaned back a little, thrown off by the sudden request. “To-?” 

“To sleep,” she added softly. “Just that. We both need the rest, but after the last few days, I do not much feel like being alone anymore.” 

“Are you sure?” he asked. Bed was calling his name louder by the minute, and bed next to Ziva was even more tempting - but going from four days of silence to sleeping together, if only in the most literal sense, felt like a big step. 

Ziva nodded quietly. “I am sure,” she said steadily. “I know I often expect you to guess what I want. Today I am asking. We are both exhausted. Come back to my place, we will catch up on sleep together.” She stood slowly and waited, in a clear invitation. 

“Right,” he said, still a little startled, but pushed himself upright too. The table remained solid beneath his weight, no longer the tenuous house of cards he’d pictured at first. He tucked the bag with the untouched bear claw in his overcoat pocket. “Yeah. I can do that.” 

They made their way back to the front of the cafe, and waved to Fern as they passed. 

“Not staying for a second round?” She asked, handing a takeout tray to another customer. It was nearing 7am, morning rush, Tony was glad they were clearing out before it really began.

“We’ll take a rain check. But Monday?” Tony shook his head but glanced at Ziva, who nodded. “Both of us,” he added. 

Fern caught his eye and smiled. “Deal,” she said. “See you then.” 

“I gotta know something first. College - what’s your major?” he asked as Ziva dropped some change in the tip jar. 

She lit up, looking pleased he’d asked. “Psychology. I want to be a relationship counsellor.” 

Tony stared at her for a second. “Seriously?” he asked. 

“Completely,” she said brightly. Her eyes flicked between him and Ziva. “People are fascinating. And messy. But fixable, most of the time.”

Oh yeah. That was pointed.

Ziva slipped her hand through the crook of his elbow, a quiet, deliberate confirmation. Fern’s grin widened almost beatifically. 

“Yeah,” Tony said slowly. “Thanks, Fern.” Hippie-barista-relationship counsellor. It fitted as well as her name. 

She smiled, all sunshine, but obviously pleased she’d got them pinned down. So much for federal agents. “See you next week.”

“Yeah,” he said, turning for the door. “See you.”

He held the door for Ziva and made it about five yards down the street before he cracked. “We’re going to end up in her final paper,” he murmured. 

Ziva snorted softly. “Only if she passes,” she said dryly, increasing her pace a little. “Come on.”

Tony followed. Messy but fixable, yeah, he could live with that. 

Chapter Text

They’d taken Ziva’s car, not wanting to mess around with parking separately and meeting back up, even when they lived that close. Upstairs, he’d sank down on the couch the minute they were inside, while Ziva said she was going to get changed.

He’d been on the verge of dropping off when she appeared in the hallway entrance, pyjamas on, hair undone. 

“Well, are you coming?” she’d asked expectantly. 

He forced his eyes back open. “Oh,” he said dumbly. “Your room?” 

Ziva rolled her eyes wearily. “If I had meant for you to sleep on the sofa, you could have done that at home. Yes, in bed.” 

A new problem arose when he shuffled down the hallway after her; Ziva had the benefit of a full closet. He had the jeans and sweater he was currently wearing. 

“Maybe I should run back home and get some sweats.” He’d always been an underwear at most kind of guy, and she knew that - but this didn’t really feel like a getting naked situation. 

Ziva looked up from where she’d been rearranging the pillows. She was a centre of the mattress sleeper when she was alone. “I have seen you naked,” she reminded him. “More than once. Your shorts are fine.” 

“Right, you sure?” He kicked off his shoes but hesitated, hands on the button at his waist. 

Ziva’s eyes narrowed. “DiNozzo. Bed. Now.” She slipped beneath the covers. 

Tony snorted. “I remember the last time you said that to me. It sounded way hotter.” He kicked off his jeans. 

Ziva, already settling herself in, offered a sleepy, disgusted grunt and hurled a pillow at him. He chuckled, flopping it back onto the mattress harder than necessary, just enough to jostle her. 

“I really like these sheets,” she murmured into the pillow, already lost beneath her hair and halfway asleep. “Do not make me kill you here.” 

It was the kind of threat that didn’t really need an answer. Tony left the t-shirt on and climbed in beside her, keeping that same distance they’d established after things had gone cold. Ziva rolled, throwing an arm over his waist, not exactly tightly, but closer than he’d expected, considering. 

Her face pressed lightly against his shoulder blade for a minute. “Lose the shirt,” she demanded sleepily. He obliged - with difficulty, seeing as she didn’t actually move - and after a minute, she was out cold, her cheek still against his back. 

He followed about ten seconds later. 

Hours later, although he couldn’t have said how many, Tony felt himself drifting back to consciousness. He wasn’t groggy, but had slept hard; his mind felt clear and ready for the first time in days. He blinked in the strange light, unable to tell what time it was. He would have just as easily believed it was noon the same day or a full 24 hours later; it was the kind of deep, dreamless sleep that felt longer than it actually had been. 

Ziva was still close to his back, warm and familiar. Her hand was still around him, curled gently into his fingers, but the pressure in her touch said she was already awake, waiting for him. 

At first, neither of them moved. It wasn’t the kind of sleep that took a long adjustment period to wake up from, but it was warm and still, the closest they’d been in a long time. Even without talking, he knew this wasn’t stalling - just enjoying the feeling for a minute. 

Still, they both knew when the spell was broken, Ziva’s hand slipped off his back at the same time the need to move overtook him. Slowly, he rolled to face her. 

“Hi,” he whispered, voice still gravelly. “Been up long?” 

Ziva propped her head on her elbow. “Not really. You had already started making that snorting noise that means you’re about to wake up. I forgot you did that.” 

“What time is it? Or should I say what day?” He stretched his legs under the covers. 

Ziva twisted briefly, reaching for her phone. “A little after two, still Saturday,” she reported, turning back to face him. One of her feet came to rest gently on his shin. 

Tony nodded, impressed. “Almost a full seven hours' sleep and we’ve still got most of the day left. Not bad.” 

“Do you want a coffee?” Ziva asked. Tony could hear the reluctance in her voice at the idea of getting up. 

He shook his head. “Believe it or not, no. I think I’ve had enough life-altering talks over coffee for one day.”

Ziva chuckled softly. “Okay then. But speaking of talks... I remember you saying something about self-accountability.” 

Tony exhaled - when Ziva said sleep, then talk, she really wasn’t taking any more detours. “Right... that” He shifted onto his back, staring at the ceiling and took a deep breath. 

“I already gave you the cliff notes version in the cafe. What I said, the relapse thing. I know how it sounded. Well, I worked it out last night, anyway. It sounded like I wanted to go back to all the things that we did before. You know, acting like the world couldn’t touch us because we were good together and that was all that mattered. Not talking about the things that we needed to, letting everything else - even the sex - fall apart because we couldn’t handle reality.” He turned his head slightly to catch her expression. “Is that about what you heard?” 

Ziva had leaned back on the pillows too, also regarding her ceiling for answers. “More or less,” she agreed. 

“Would it help if I told you what I was trying to say?” 

“Go on.” She nodded. 

“I get it, Zi, it’s been getting harder to stop every time. But we said we were taking it slow, and then it felt like we weren’t anymore. I just wanted you to know that if you really didn’t want to stop, but that you couldn’t let it mean anything, it didn’t have to. We could enjoy that, just for the night.” He stopped and looked back at the ceiling again. “I wasn’t going to wake up the next day and think we were suddenly together again.” 

Ziva’s voice dropped, guarded. “You do not want this to be more serious again?” she asked.

“I did... I do,” he corrected quickly. “But it felt like you were stuck on something, and I thought it was because we were trying to keep this unnamed. So I was letting you know I wasn’t going to name it if you weren’t ready to. And yeah, I thought with my dick instead of my head, and it came out wrong. But I wasn’t trying to joke about it. I just wanted to let you know it was okay if the only thing you wanted was the sex.” 

She nodded. “Joking was never the problem. I knew you were serious, but I heard what it used to mean,” she said quietly. “You did not just say ‘one little relapse’ you also said ‘let’s call in sick.’ Do you remember how often we were almost late to work? The mornings we were, when we could get away with it? Missing calls, forgetting who we were outside that apartment?” 

Tony nodded, guilty. “Yeah, I remember.” Rushed mornings, risking speeding fines, finishing his tie at red lights because they’d scrambled out the door barely dressed. Cold coffee, ignored voicemails. Making excuses to everyone except each other.

“We were in love, it seemed romantic,” Ziva said softly. “But we disappeared. From everything else, from everyone. It was not a balanced way to go about things.” 

“Yeah, McGee said something similar. I think the exact words he used were ‘private disaster.’” Tony cringed inwardly, remembering the way he’d accidentally vented everything a few days earlier. “Oh yeah, heads up, he knows we’ve been seeing each other, so watch out for leading questions.” 

Ziva actually laughed for a second. “Well, that explains his text!” she exclaimed. “But then, Tony, when everything else went wrong, when we did not know how to manage that together... we had no one else. We were in a place where no one could reach us, but also where we could not reach each other. I can’t go back there, not like that.” 

“I get it,” he said softly, reaching across the mattress for her hand. “I’m sorry, Ziva, really.” 

“Good,” she said, firmly but not harshly. “Because I cannot do that again. This has come to mean more than I expected. But if you are only in it to repeat the past, I would rather cut my losses now.” 

Tony dragged his thumb over her knuckles gently and turned to face her again. “I’m not. If we’re doing anything now, whatever we’re calling it, I want it to be different. And I’m trying, however badly. But that also means not disappearing on me if I screw up, Zi.” 

Ziva’s fingers curled slightly in his. She didn’t look away. “I know,” she said, clear and unwavering. “I should not have walked out. Not like that. It was cruel, even if I did not mean it to be. If I need space to think, I will tell you that first.”

She rolled to her side, closer now, and let go of his hand to stroke his arm instead. “I am trying to be different, too.” She squeezed his bicep gently, present and reassuring. “I know the last few days may have seemed more like we were in the past, but I am.” 

“Hey, not like I can talk.” Tony shrugged lightly. “I was pulling the same dumb shit I did back then too. Wallowing instead of talking about it. Assuming I knew what you were thinking. Only difference is McGee got the sarcastic commentary this time around.” 

“No,” Ziva said, using her grip on him as leverage to slide a little closer still. “The difference is this time, we did not let it break us.” 

He let out a slow breath. “That’s the bit I keep getting stuck on, Zi. I spiralled, you shut down. We’ve been trying so hard not to do that, and then the first second it looks like we’re getting real, it’s the same old story all over again. How does that look anything like doing it differently?” 

“I know we did. But like you said, it was getting real, it was a present-day problem this time. Rather than facing what happened before. The stakes felt higher this time, and we both protected ourselves the way we know best - and forgot that we trust each other.” Ziva agreed. Her leg bumped his. “But we did stop. I broke the silence, you were willing to listen. We both apologised instead of pretending it did not happen, or that it did not hurt. We have learned and set new boundaries. We have put things in place to protect ourselves individually, not just as a couple.”

That made Tony pause for a second. “A couple, huh?” he asked softly. “No more pretending we’re just catching up?” 

Ziva tucked her head under his chin, closing the gap between them. “Yes, a couple. There is no use pretending it is less than that.” 

He slid his arm around her back. “Do you think we’ll actually get better at this?” 

“I think we already are,” she replied. “We are not the same people we were when we divorced.” 

“Yeah, well. You had a therapist. All I have to go on is staring at the ceiling and circular thinking.” He shrugged. 

Ziva gave a soft huff of amusement, warm against his chest. “You seem to have done okay on your own,” she assured. 

“We’re not fixed though,” he said softer now.

“No,” Ziva agreed. “But we are getting better. And we are trying.”

Tony nodded and shifted to his back, bringing Ziva with him. She settled with her head on his shoulder, his arm around her, keeping her close. For the first time in a while, it felt like there was no pressure to move, to be perfect, or to make amends. Even their recent meetups had had the expectation of getting it right while keeping it casual at the same time. That last one, he hadn’t even realised was there until it had gone. Now, it was just quiet. 

“I forgot we had this,” he murmured. “This easy, no-stakes stuff. Between all the noise. When we weren’t proving we were the best couple in the world. Feels good.” 

“It does,” Ziva agreed quietly. “You do not have to stare at the ceiling alone anymore. I will be happy to tell you when you are wrong.” 

“I’m counting on it,” he chuckled, kissing the top of her head. “I think the ceiling has given me up as a lost cause now, anyway.” 

Ziva laughed, low and soft, snuggling in a little closer, her hand resting on his chest. Tony settled back, content for once in the quiet between them. 

He looked up at the ceiling a second longer; it held no more answers than it had all the previous night, but right now, he didn’t feel like he needed any.

Tony lasted twenty-eight whole minutes in silence, which he was pretty sure was a record. Ziva was still draped across him, one leg thrown over his, quiet too, although it was a lot easier for her to say nothing than it was for him. 

“This is starting to feel pretty nice,” he sighed reluctantly. “Which means we should probably get up.” 

Ziva sighed but didn’t move. 

“Not because I want to,” he added. “Because believe me, I could stay here all day and right through till Monday if you’d put up with me that long. But we were just saying that was half the problem.” He ran his fingers down her spine and resisted the temptation to curl under the hemline at the bottom of her shirt. “Remember, shutting out everything else and just letting the world shrink to us?” 

She moved, rolling enough to prop her chin on his chest to look up at him. “Have you been having more discussions with the ceiling, Tony?” 

“Yeah, maybe,” he answered, grinning when Ziva’s head bounced with his chuckle. “But, if we’re serious about doing this right - and I mean right right - maybe we don’t give in to that for now. Get up before our legs forget how to work.” 

“I did not think that would be the body part you would reference right now,” she replied, dipping her face to kiss his chest, smirking at his answering groan. 

“Don’t make this harder than it is, Zi,” he said, pushing her hair back off her forehead. “I’m saying, as tempting as it is, let’s go do our own things. Reset a bit. I dunno about you, but I kind of forgot the rest of my life this week. I’ve got almost a week’s worth of laundry and old takeout containers waiting for me. Plus, my car is still parked outside the cafe.” 

Ziva tipped her head to the side, a pleased smile on her face. “I cooked,” she said smugly. “I even have leftovers.” 

“Yeah, well only the apocalypse could stop you from cooking,” he snorted. “Go run, or catch a yoga class or something. I know we slept through the one you like to go to this morning, so your routine’s off too. Just... if you’re going to go back to the punching bag, go easier on your knuckles.” He pulled her scuffed hand up and kissed it gently. “But tomorrow, once we’ve got control of our lives again - real date. Good food, better wine. The whole nine yards,” he added. 

“Hmm... If you are so concerned about my exercise regime, I do know another form of cardio...” she hummed and then leaned up to kiss him, slow, full body, the kind that always hit him in all the right ways. He barely had time to enjoy it before she pulled away, landing a swat on his hip in the same motion. 

“But you are right. I have training to catch up on. Out!” Still carrying the momentum from her quick movement, she was up and out of the bed before he could blink. 

“I didn’t mean right this second!” he protested, still reeling from the sudden change in pace. “I meant in five minutes or so.” 

Ziva shook her head, already searching her dresser for new clothes. “Too late, you decided to be noble,” she tossed over her shoulder. 

Several minutes of playful grumbling later, he was at the door, tugging his shoes on. “Just so we’re clear here, I had expected something a little more reluctant from you, maybe even nice. Not this militaristic boot up my ass eviction,” he said.

Ziva smirked at him unrepentantly. “I did not even pull any weapons on you. That still counts as nice.” She came closer and handed him his coat. 

“Debatable,” he grumbled, feeding his arms into the sleeves. “So tomorrow...” 

“Be here at six, I will cook,” she informed him decisively. “Out by eleven, we both have work.” 

He paused, coat half-buttoned. “I was thinking a restaurant? Remember those? Candlelight, soft music, all the things we haven’t been letting ourselves do because we were only catching up?” 

Ziva nodded. “I have music, and candles,” she pointed out, stepping back to add a quick braid to her hair. “There is nothing that a restaurant has that we cannot achieve here.” 

“Are you telling me to lower my standards?” he asked with a grin. 

Suddenly she was right there again, sliding one hand inside his coat, fingers curling into the waistband of his jeans, tugging their hips flush. 

“No,” she said, voice low, meeting his eyes with a burn he felt all the way down to his toes. “I am saying dessert can happen that much faster here than if we are at a restaurant. And tomorrow...”

She rose on her toes, her lips brushing just beneath his ear.

“...you had better arrive with far less noble intentions. And Merlot.”

Tony blinked. He made a valiant attempt at regaining composure, rubbing a hand down his face like that might reboot his brain. 

“Right,” he said. “Okay. Um. Great.” He cleared his throat and pointed vaguely at the door. “I’m gonna - yep. I’m leaving now. Like a noble person. Who leaves.”

When he didn’t move, Ziva reached around him, releasing the catch. “Then leave,” she said, looking smug. 

He caught her face in both hands and kissed her briefly. “Okay, Ms David. Enjoy being your brilliantly independent self. And I...” He paused and kissed her again as she backed him out the door, trying to remember what she’d said about him earlier. “...Will do okay on my own.” 

Chapter Text

The weather outside didn’t seem quite as personally offensive to Tony as it had the day before, or maybe that was just his better mood, but it had stopped raining long enough for the pavement to dry. He caught a cab to the cafe and found his car where he’d left it. As an unexpected bonus, he hadn’t even scored a parking fine. Things were definitely looking up. 

Back home, he opened the windows for a little while. Not long enough to let the place get cold, just to air out while he inspected - and discarded most of - the contents in this fridge and ditched the empty takeout packaging.

The rest of the apartment seemed to fall into a rhythm after that, a wipe down of the counter, running his suits down to his car to drop off at the dry cleaners on his way to work and throwing the clothes that could be machine washed on for a quick turn. He swiped at the bathroom, but it wasn’t too bad, and the cleaner would be coming on Monday, anyway. The bed hadn’t been slept in since he’d made it, so other than a brief fluff of the comforter, purely for aesthetics, he didn’t need to do anything there. 

By the time he’d read through the mail he’d ignored; mostly junk, but two bills and a new pizza place he wanted to check out - it was getting to the early evening and his stomach was sending up frequent reminders he hadn’t eaten properly. 

The fridge clean out had been almost too successful - there weren’t a lot of options, and leaving his apartment when it had just started to feel hospitable again wasn’t appealing. A few minutes of hunter-gathering, complete with his best Attenborough-like narration just for the amusement factor, eventually revealed crackers, peanut butter, a block of cheese and the one apple that hadn’t succumbed to time and abandonment. Carbs, protein, dairy and fresh produce, all the major boxes were checked. By the time he’d arranged it all on a plate (more narration, this time Julia Child) it looked intentional, almost photogenic. 

With a chuckle, he took a picture; cheese cut into too-perfect triangles, peanut butter smeared on crackers and the apple sliced and fanned out in what could pass for effort; and sent it to Ziva. No caption, no explanation. 

He ate, washed his plate and replied to the emails that had accumulated while his laptop had been exiled beneath the sofa. It was mostly chain letters from Abby who was logical enough to know none of it was real, and just superstitious enough not to leave anything to chance. The email he’d never sent the other night was closed without a second glance; relegated to the depths of the draft folder. 

Afterwards, he rinsed the plate, wiped the counter again even though it didn’t need it, and stood there for a moment in the quiet. The apartment didn’t echo anymore, and the silence wasn’t pressing in the same way. Just... calm. 

He was halfway to the couch when his phone buzzed.

Ziva (6.52pm)

“Very artistic. Let me guess, that was all you had left in your kitchen?” 

Tony (6.53pm)

“I find your lack of faith disturbing.”

Tony (6.54pm)

“Also... yes.”

Ziva (6.55pm)

“Well, full points for creativity, but minus one for whatever movie quote that was. Be aware I expect the same level of attention to detail in all other areas.” 

Tony (6.57 pm)

“How dare you, that was A New Hope. McGee made us all watch it on his birthday that time. But in case it also escaped your memory, attention to detail was never something I had an issue with. More than happy to come provide a refresher course right now.” 

Ziva (6.59pm) 

“I remember exactly how attentive you can be. But I am about to step into hot yoga. I would tell you it’s not as sexy as it sounds, but I know you’re already picturing it. See you tomorrow xx” 

He tossed his phone onto the couch with a laugh. She’d said that on purpose, knowing exactly how he’d hear it. He was already imagining her, limbs stretched, skin glowing, the way the shorter hairs at her neck curled when she got sweaty, even when she’d gone at it with the straightener, the exact sound of her breath when she was working hard. 

Oh, she had his number, alright. Still, he closed his eyes and went with it, just for a few more seconds. She’d all but given him permission now, after all. 

When his eyes opened again, they fell at random on his coat, hanging by the front door. One of the pockets looked oddly bulky. He got up to inspect it and discovered a crinkled white paper bag stamped with the name of the cafe. Of course, the bear claw. 

It was a little squashed, but otherwise fine. Definitely cold, but that never hurt anything. He hadn’t exactly forgotten it. He just hadn’t thought about it since he’d stuffed it in his pocket when Ziva had leaned across the table and asked him to go home with her. The pastry he hadn’t even ordered, but Fern just seemed to know he’d want, had been riding around with him all day since. 

He sat back down, scrolling the movie options for the evening; Casablanca was just starting on the classics channel. With a chuckle, given how many times he’d already referenced it relating to his current situation, he stretched his legs out in front of him to enjoy both the movie and his dessert. 

Tony actually watched the movie. Of course, he could recite the entire script by heart anyway, but he didn’t stare at the ceiling, there was no distracted second-screen scrolling while he waited for a text that wasn’t coming, and no constant internal commentary. Just the sweet, flaky pastry, Bogey and Bergman, and peace. 

Movie over, he switched off the TV without regret, tossed the empty bag in the trash and headed for the bedroom without a second glance at the couch. He went through his usual pre-bed routine, decided he’d take a trip to the barber in the morning and switched off the light. 

He climbed into bed, let out one long exhale, and for the first time in almost a week, realised he had nothing on his mind. No circular thoughts, no unanswered questions, and no dread of what was to come. 

Instead, he thought about hot yoga and their date the following evening. And how, for the first time in too long, the space between now and then didn’t feel like something he had to survive.

Chapter Text

Tony waited for Ziva to buzz him up the following night. He knew the passcode for her door by now, but this was a date, which called for date-like behaviour. And dates, especially first dates (or even first-in-a-long-time dates) didn’t start with marching into the building like you owned it. 

Ziva obviously took the cue because her door was shut when he reached her floor, too. Normally, she left it ajar for him to let himself in. So, he tucked the wine under his arm and knocked. Of course, she’d already known he was on his way up, so there was no waiting involved; it was all courtesy for show, and he was grinning to himself when the door opened. 

In half a second, it wasn’t funny anymore.

Not because there was anything wrong, but because she was beautiful. Not in the way that had caught him off guard and made him forget how to speak the first time he’d seen her. But in the way that made him want to stop, and file the sight in his memory with a stamp marked “Important.” 

Black dress, bare shoulder, loose curls. The combination never failed, but there was something else about her face - not the makeup or even the spark in her gaze as she took him in slowly that made him wonder if they’d skip dinner entirely - something that he remembered from before. It was the genuine delight shining in her eyes he remembered from the first few months of their marriage, she hadn’t looked at him like that in a long time. 

“You clean up well,” Ziva said, filling the silence where his brain was still stalled out. “And you’ve been to the barber,” she added, her hand following her lips on his cheek. 

He shrugged, all modesty, but pleased she’d noticed. “Well, this...” he gestured at her, still lost for a proper description. “Just makes it all worthwhile. Plus, I noticed the face you made when I kissed you goodbye yesterday.” It had been tiny, but there, she’d never liked the stubble, and yesterday morning, after two days skipping shaving, his face had resembled a cactus. 

That earned him a smile, not the brief flash, but the slow unfolding kind when she was truly touched by something he’d done. 

“Not to mention,” he added quickly while he was on a roll. “Merlot, as requested, and flowers for the lady.” The wine was a familiar favourite and needed no introduction. He presented the bouquet for closer inspection. “I know you think roses are clichéd, but... I saw these and I couldn’t stop myself.”

Ziva peered inside the tissue paper and burst into laughter. 

There were flowers, as promised. Orangey-yellow roses that had a name like sunset, or sunrise, he couldn’t remember what the florist had said, but they looked pretty enough. But surrounding the blooms, as well as the standard sprigs of baby's breath, were several small, feathery green fronds. 

“Ferns,” Ziva gasped, catching her breath. “Really?” She thumped him lightly with the bouquet, still smiling. 

Tony grinned. “I figured if you’re going to be thinking of our coffee counsellor every time you look at me from now on, might as well roll with it.” He shrugged. They’d been the last bunch of roses in the shop, and he’d been seconds away from choosing the lilies till he’d caught sight of the greenery. He hadn’t laughed quite as hard, but the server had looked like they were about to call in a psych team and have him hauled away just the same. 

Ziva shook her head, still laughing and lifted them to her face, inhaling the perfume. “They are beautiful, thank you.” The paper crinkled between them as she leaned in to kiss him again, humming contentedly. “The barber was definitely a good choice. Come in, I will put these in some water, and we can eat.” 

He followed her through to the kitchen, to find a vase, already filled, waiting by the sink. “Oh, someone’s sure of herself, isn’t she?” he laughed. 

Ziva rolled her eyes as she unwrapped the paper. “Maybe someone else is predictable. Pour the wine, Tony.” 

It turned out there really wasn’t anything they couldn’t have had at a restaurant. The added bonus of privacy and a waiter pretending not to look down the front of Ziva’s dress definitely too. It was another detail he’d kind of forgotten, the further they’d drifted from each other the last time, just how much magic Ziva was able to inject into a night in. Of course, a lot of it had been learned by making do in her past, when what came next - usually a sanctioned hit - was best managed undercover. But they both preferred not to let previous associations ruin a good thing. 

“I remember this chicken,” Tony said. Dinner over and the plates stacked aside, they’d been chatting about how they’d taken the last few days out on their teams, while they finished the wine. While Tony had gotten over-zealous about training days, Ziva had become almost militantly focused on physical fitness. “You always made it because you said it was easy. What’s that supposed to tell me? Our first proper date and you take the easy way out?” he grinned across the table, clear it was a joke. 

Ziva crossed her arms slightly, leaning back in her seat. “I suppose you think this dress just fell out of my closet looking this good?” she shot back, smirking. “You want me over a stove for three hours, or looking like this?” 

“Zi, you look incredible in anything - that’s not exactly an even choice,” he grumbled. 

She tilted her head, one eyebrow rising. “You do not think so?” she asked, the hint of a playful warning coming into her tone. “Because I did not spend three hours only choosing the dress...” 

That made him sit up a little straighter. “Keep going...” 

“Oh, that got your attention,,” Ziva laughed softly. “Well, I also thought it would be wise to serve something lighter.” 

“And why is that?” 

“What is it you like to say? Food coma? That was definitely not on my agenda tonight. I want you awake.” 

His brain froze for half a second. Right, there it was, confirmation. 

Not that he’d expected her to change her mind, especially not after the way she’d made it all too clear he could have stayed on the afternoon before, but had been careful not to get his hopes (or any other part of him) up too much. He wasn’t pessimistic exactly, just guarded. He knew as well as anyone what a night’s thinking could do, especially with something they were treating as carefully as this, and had ended so badly the first time. There was always a chance they’d decide they were still just being recklessly optimistic that they could do this all a second time and survive it. 

Still, something about the way she said it, her quiet certainty rather than all the smoky double entendre she often dealt out when she had no intention of following through, clicked it into place in a way that made his pulse pick up a notch. This was real.

“Zee-vah,” he said, drawing the syllables out, “my intentions are getting less noble by the second.”

Ziva chuckled softly, her eyes filling with promise. “Good, because that is exactly where I want you to be.”

He reached for his wine again, still holding her gaze, but before he got there, Ziva intercepted him, her fingers curling gently around his.

Tony wasn’t even aware of standing, but somehow, Ziva met him halfway around the table. There was no nod, no permission, just her hand trailing from his wrist up to his collar, tugging him close, and a kiss that said neither one was thinking about playing it safe tonight. 

“Okay,” he breathed a few seconds later. “Officially out of noble thoughts, now.”

Her hand slid up the back of his neck and into his hair. “Perhaps you should stop thinking completely.” 

He didn’t entirely stop thinking, but he did start feeling. Instead, he focused on her curves under his hands, the hitch in her breath when he dragged himself away from her mouth to taste her neck, and the way she arched into him like she remembered every detail of how they used to fit together. 

God, had he ever really forgotten?

He didn’t get long down memory lane, her mouth landed on his, rougher this time, and when she arched into him with that low, needy sound he hadn’t heard in more than five years, it snapped him back to the present.

Just like that, he knew they weren’t making it to the bed. 

One of his hands found the curve of her waist, the other tangled in her hair, and when she pulled him in tighter, he didn’t ask if this was a good idea. It wasn’t about caution anymore. It was nothing but want, all-consuming and long overdue. 

Ziva’s hands tugged his shirt free from his pants, sliding against his skin and around his back, pulling her with him. He went with her, past the point of second-guessing, until she was backed against the edge of the table. 

When she lifted herself up to sit on it - it hit him. The quiet, unobtrusive way she’d moved all the dishes to the far side after they’d eaten. Subtle and nonchalant, keeping his thoughts focused on her smile, her words. Watching the way her curls shifted when she tilted her head, how her pendant caught the light between her collarbones. He hadn’t even noticed she’d been lining this up the whole time. 

His jacket fell off his shoulders as he found himself standing between her thighs, and her teeth were grazing his collarbone. Anticipation blurred into memories - a different apartment, a different bottle of Merlot, a different table, but the same fire, the same pull they’d never been able to say no to. 

Now that they remembered how good it could be, Tony realised they weren’t even making it to the couch. 

Chapter Text

Tony wasn’t sure he wanted to move. He wondered if he should feel exhausted, or sore, or at the very least uncomfortable, considering just how much of Ziva’s weight was pooled across him. His arm had definitely gone to sleep. He also didn’t care. 

He swiped at the curls on his chest, trying to find her beneath the loose mass. Every time he moved a lock, more seemed to take its place. “You alive under there?” he asked. 

“Mm-hmm,” she hummed, sleepy. “You?” 

“Barely,” he rasped. “Just so you know, if I don’t make it out of here, tell Ducky I want the death certificate to read. Perished in noble causes, body recovered naked, grinning and dehydrated.” 

Ziva snorted against his skin. “I specifically remember telling you that you were not to be noble tonight.” 

He dragged his knuckles down her spine, still delighting in having that much of her skin exposed to explore at will. “Yeah, but all heroes get a little embellishment in the retelling,” he reasoned. 

“Heroic?” Another snort. “Enthusiastic is the best you will get from me.” She shifted a little, sliding up his body till her face was in his neck. 

Tony grinned into her curls. “I’ll take it, if you’re willing to tack on an ‘eager to please’ as well,” he said, kissing the top of her head. 

Ziva sighed and settled in a little further, her knee nudging between his. “Eager and successful,” she told his collarbone. 

He hummed in his throat, satisfied with that assessment. When they’d peeled themselves off the edge of the table, they made it to the bedroom for something slower and more deliberate; more about getting reacquainted than scratching an itch. And despite everything that had changed between them professionally and emotionally... physically, they still worked. 

Now, they were sprawled out, bodies cooling, but still twined together, content in skin-to-skin and afterglow. 

“You sound smug,” Ziva observed. 

“Can a man not be proud of his work?” he asked, with an offended scoff. 

Her hand strayed down his chest and across his stomach, soft and affectionate. “Proud is one thing, you are almost purring. But if you call that work... a work out, maybe...” she trailed off with a contented sigh that was only two degrees removed from purring herself. 

“Hey now,” he tilted his head down to try and see her, succeeding in mostly curls and a bare shoulder. “Mutual satisfaction, that is definitely something to be proud of. A noble goal, in fact.” 

Ziva groaned and swatted at him idly with one hand. “There you go with the nobility again,” she grumbled. “Are you trying to rewrite your entire reputation in a single night?” 

He hummed thoughtfully for a second. “Well, maybe not the whole thing, but if anything from tonight does make it to the history books, it has to be dessert.” 

“Dessert?” She lifted her head slightly, questioning. “I did not make dessert?” 

“Sure you did.” He nodded, kissing her hair in the same motion. “Dessert, you know, the thing that came after the main course and the palate cleanser on the table?” 

Ziva’s eyebrow raised, suspicious.

“Something to be enjoyed purely for the taste,” he went on, enjoying the wordplay. “Savoured slowly. Thoroughly.”

A sound rumbled in her throat, half amused, half a groan as she caught on. “You’re disgusting,” she informed him. 

“That is not what you were telling me at the time,” he chuckled. “If I remember, you said...” 

Ziva leaned up and sealed her mouth over his, effectively cutting off whatever memory he planned to revisit. “You taste like me,” she murmured, derailing him entirely with another long kiss. 

“Well, thorough doesn’t always mean tidy,” he pointed out when he could speak again. “And you did ask for attention to detail.” 

“I did,” she agreed, snuggling down against him again. “And you delivered, in shovels.”

“Spades,” he snorted, then shrugged, pretending to be modest. “But I always aim to exceed expectations.” 

“Oh, you did,” she assured. “Multiple times.” 

Tony stretched slowly under her, more than a little pleased with himself. Not that he’d doubted anything while it was happening, either, but there was always something about having it confirmed after the fact that he never got tired of hearing. 

“So can I expect a 5-star review on Yelp?” 

“No chance in hell!” she exclaimed.

“What?” he asked, affronted. “No glowing comments, nothing to let future patrons know what they’re in for?” 

She leaned up again, looking him in the eye. “Why would I advertise?” she asked bluntly. “I am not in the habit of sharing. There are to be absolutely no ‘future patrons!’” 

“Yeah, but how does that saying go?” he chuckled. “Something about not hiding your light under a bushel?”

Ziva’s eyes narrowed, and without warning, she dropped her head and bit his shoulder. Not hard, more punctuation than punishment. He could tell it wouldn’t leave a mark, but it was just enough to make him jump and half yelp, half laugh with surprise. 

“Ow, okay!” he said, rubbing at the spot theatrically. “Received loud and clear. Possession duly noted.” 

Ziva hummed, sounding anything but sorry, as she settled back into the crook of his arm. “Good.”

He wriggled, shifting her off his arm a little. His fingers tingled as he did. Ziva sighed quietly and rolled her weight a little further onto his torso instead. 

“So,” he continued, ignoring the way his elbow clicked when he stretched, and wrapped his arm back around her. “As good as you remember?” 

She lifted her head up, regarding him through critical eyes. “I would say better,” she said slowly. “But I do not think your ego will cope. You are already smug enough as it is.” 

He scoffed, shaking his head against the pillow. “Charming. No stellar reviews, no public accolades, and an insult on top of it all. How could you? I guess that means you don’t get any feedback from me either.” 

“I do not need you to tell me,” she laughed, lying back down and tugging the quilt up over her shoulder a little more. “The part where you forgot your own name was clear enough,” she added, nudging him with her knee. 

“I did not forget my name!” he protested, indignant now. “I just had better things to do with my mouth.” 

That earned a low chuckle, dry and satisfied, and she tipped her head to press a kiss against his throat. “Yeah,” she hummed. “You really did.” 

Tony smirked, still tracing absent patterns over her skin, drifting from the hollow in her waist to the crest of her hip bone. “Now who’s smug?”

“Still you,” she shot back instantly. “I am merely sated.” He could feel the curve of her smile against his neck. 

They lapsed into quiet again, basking in it all for a little while longer. 

The last time Tony had shared a bed with Ziva, they’d been on opposite sides of the mattress, backs turned, both suffocating in unspoken resentment. Now, they were tangled up in the middle, warm and loose-limbed, content in the quiet and fitting back together almost like they’d never stopped. 

He sighed unintentionally, still wondering how they’d ever managed to let a feeling like this go, and Ziva tipped her head up to him. 

“Are you alright?” she asked softly. Her eyes were wide and gentle, checking in, not just about the sigh, or the sex, or the numb arm, all of it. 

He nodded, brushing a kiss to her temple. “Very,” he confirmed. No deflecting with humour this time. “You?” 

“Yes,” she said simply. “I am. But, it is 11.03...” 

He groaned at the reminder. “Already? I’m going, but please note both my nobility and reluctance.” 

“Noted,” Ziva chuckled, although she didn’t move off him. “I was going to say if you wanted to stay for a shower, that curfew could stretch till 11.30. We both need one anyway.” 

That much was true - he definitely planned to make the bathroom his first stop when he got home. Still, he closed his eyes, resisting. Just a few more minutes would’ve been so easy.

“I don’t think so, Zi,” he said, even as the thought of hot water and a few more touches called to him. “A shower is way too tempting. I wouldn’t be able to help myself. I’d go back for a second round of dessert.”

“Now that really would be heroic!” Ziva laughed. “It has been a long while since you managed three times in a single night.” 

“Oh, I can’t, even if it has been a while,” he admitted, surprised by how little shame he felt saying so. “Hence “dehydrated” on my death certificate... But I know you could...” 

Ziva chuckled low in her throat. “Tempting,” she said, tapping her finger on his lips. “But unnecessary.”

“You sure? I’m still taking volunteers,” he offered. “No pressure, consider it purely for the joy of service.”

She laughed, then kissed him once, soft, appreciative, and very final.

“It was already more than enough,” she said. “I appreciate the offer, but if you feel like that, you had better go.” She untangled herself slowly, stretched to turn on the lamp and then tugged the sheet up around herself. “We do not want to start anything we have no time to finish.” 

He got up too, collecting his scattered clothes, one arm still not quite working correctly, aware that Ziva was watching with quiet approval as he tugged his shorts back on. 

“I swear I should get a medal for this, or maybe just be committed. What man in his right mind leaves a woman’s bedroom when she looks at him like that?” 

“A noble one,” Ziva quipped with a giggle. 

Tony chuckled too, and leaned over, pants still undone at the waist, to cup her face and kiss her deeply, one more time, just because he could. 

“I’ll see you at the cafe tomorrow, yeah?” he asked softly. 

She nodded, a hand drifting under his jaw as he pulled back. “You will. Fern expects us.” 

“Yeah,” he chuckled, groping under the bed for a missing sock. “She probably needs to know if her little social experiment worked so she can write the conclusion for her paper.” 

“It did.” Ziva sat up a little, the sheet falling to her waist, and smiled, warm and contented. “We should probably thank her.” 

He sat on the bed to tug his shoes on. “She’ll be smug if we do,” he warned. “Even more than I am... if that’s even possible.”

He could hear the laugh in her voice as she answered. “That is a big ask.” She leaned to plant a kiss just under his ear. “Now, go, if you stall too much, I will kick you out at 10 next time, just so you still leave at a reasonable hour with all the delays.” 

Tony chuckled, heading for the door, and scooping up his shirt, puddled on the threshold. He turned back and paused, just for a second, not stalling, but taking one more second to appreciate the moment and the view.

“Night, Ziva.”

“Goodnight, Tony.”

He slipped his shirt back on, found his jacket, and realised he had no idea where his tie had gone. He gave that up as a loss; it would turn up eventually. He saw himself out quietly, locking the door behind him, even if he knew Ziva would still get up to check it. The quiet of the hallway settled around him, and for the first time in a while, he realised he wasn’t buzzing, or spiralling, or second-guessing.

He was tired and sweaty, and very, very satisfied, and his arm was still sending out occasional spasms as it came back to life. And yeah, maybe he was just a little bit dehydrated. But, somehow, impossibly, he was also still himself. 

For once, that felt exactly like who he was supposed to be.

Chapter Text

Monday felt different to Tony. Not the rose-coloured glasses, everything was perfect, sort of different. That was too unrealistic and fragile to last... just better somehow.  

For the first time in days, his alarm hadn’t come as an insult, the line at the dry cleaners was short, and the rain seemed to have stopped for good. The morning coffee with Ziva had ended suddenly when her cellphone had gone off, a late meeting suddenly rescheduled early. She’d been out of her seat before she ended the call, and she hadn’t even grabbed the remains of her croissant on the way out. But she had kissed him goodbye, right there in front of Fern, who said nothing, but simply looked even more smug than Tony felt and tossed him a complimentary muffin on his way out the door. Not even his breakfast date being cut short could really dull his good mood. 

Tony parked in his usual spot at work, turned off his engine and breathed out. 

He was still sore in a few places. Still vaguely tired. But the good kind. The kind that came from finally getting sleep, answers, and yeah, probably getting laid had helped too. But that wasn’t the point. The point was, he felt normal.

Inside, it was still quiet. He made a point of arriving before his team most days, but even by his standards, this was early. He’d forgotten how much he liked that time of day - when his brain wasn’t spiralling around the drain of every worst-case scenario it could come up with, anyway. A quiet moment to regroup and focus before everyone else arrived. 

First thing on his list was some calendar rearrangement before anyone got on his case about how many team-building events he’d pencilled in. He dropped his bag under his desk and got to work, whistling something upbeat and kind of swingy under his breath while he waited for it to load. 

“Morning, Tony!”

Too late. McGee’s voice sounded from the stairs, his tone warned he was on a mission. 

“‘Sup McPromotion?” he called back, and kept whistling. McGee coming down to tell him off wasn’t going to spoil his morning. Besides, he was already in the middle of fixing it before any of the enthusiastic scheduling had actually affected productivity anyway. 

“I'm not here for a social catch-up,” McGee replied, coming closer, “I need to talk to you about...”

He nodded. “Yep, already on it.” Straight back whistling. 

“Oh, good,” McGee breathed out, sounding a little relieved. “Because seven training events in a month is way too... Wait a minute, that's your had sex whistle!” 

Tony gasped and clutched at pearls he wasn’t wearing. “Language, Timothy!” he rebutted, fitting the words to the next notes of his tune. He deleted a laser-tag booking with a swipe - he really had been out of it last week if he thought that was a good idea. “And a gentleman never whistles and tells,” he added, still on key. 

“I wish I didn’t know you well enough to know that’s a lie,” McGee groaned, shaking his head. “Just... please... tell me it was Ziva,” he finished quietly, not even sounding sure he wanted to know. 

Tony stopped whistling and glanced up from his screen at that. “I’m wounded you'd assume otherwise.” 

McGee just gave him that I’ve known you for a decade look. It called back pre-disastrous marriage Tony, who ran from good emotions, and buried the bad ones in someone else’s bed at any given opportunity. 

He didn’t argue with it, hell, he’d worn that reputation like a badge once. Had tried again, in Naples. 

“Yeah,” he answered instead. The grin was unstoppable. “It was Ziva.” 

“Okay, good... I guess.” McGee closed his eyes. “Can you stop smiling like that? That says more than I wanted to know.” 

Tony chuckled and turned his eyes back to his screen. “Hey, you asked. I’m not in charge of whatever picture reel the View Master you call a brain decided to play once you had that information. Besides, you were thinking about it long before it happened. Do the names Agents Tommy and Lisa ring any bells... what did you do with them after we split up, anyway?” 

McGee massaged the bridge of his nose. “For the last time, they weren’t based on you two!” 

“Suuuurrrrre,” Tony drawled. “If you say so.” 

McGee dropped his hand from his face and looked somewhere between exhausted and exasperated. “Anyway, I did actually come down here for a reason.” 

Tony made a show of looking around the bullpen, surprised. Hanson had just stepped off the elevator, but diverted to the break room when she saw McGee there too. “It wasn’t to come down here and bask in the glow of my romantic endeavours?” 

“The calendar, Tony,” McGee pressed. 

“Already on it,” Tony promised, swinging his screen around for McGee’s perusal. “You’ll have your MCRT at your beck and call again, never fear.” 

“Good.” McGee nodded. “And look, I know you’re just trying to do a good job, Tony. But when you start overcompensating, the whole building feels it... Besides, they already trust you. You did that to their schedules, and we haven’t had a single resignation letter.” 

“It’s not about trust. It’s about flow.” Tony tapped away, adjusting dates or deleting entirely. “They’re great individually. But you get the wrong combination of two or three, and the whole rhythm falls apart. Someone’s always overlapping someone else, or hesitating because they're waiting for a signal that already came, but they didn’t understand. Or they’re just not communicating at all.”

McGee stopped for a moment, surprised. “Okay. That’s... actually insightful.”

“I am occasionally good at my job,” Tony said. “But the field communication day I booked next week stays. I need to get Hanson and Fletch out of their comfort zones with each other and start working with Cooper more to find out what he’s good at besides knocking down doors and literally picking up the bad guy.” 

“Fair enough,” McGee agreed. “But if anyone ends up zip-tied to a fence, I’m not interfering when Vance assigns you Agent Afloat again!” 

“Deal.” Tony rotated his screen back to make some final changes. “What if it’s me tied to the fence?” 

“Then I come down to video it and laugh,” McGee chuckled, then turned serious. “Listen Tony, they’re a good crew. And despite whatever disaster mode you were in last week, you know what you're doing. Don’t burn them out on obstacle courses just for bragging rights.” 

Tony didn’t respond to the compliment, but let it soak in and feel good in silence for a second. “Noted,” he said, adjusting one more entry, and pausing. “Although for the record... if I had wanted to brag, I could’ve told you about how -”

“Nope!” McGee spun on his heel, ending the conversation in a hurry. “Absolutely not. Don’t finish that sentence.”

“- How I lucked out with the vending machine this morning. Two bags of pretzels for the price of one!”

McGee froze mid-step. “Sometimes, I hate you!” he groaned. 

Tony just grinned. “Your mind, McGee. Sewer.”

“Blame Tommy and Lisa,” McGee called over his shoulder as he made for the stairs. “They stayed together, by the way. You ever want relationship advice from the bestselling author of a functional couple, I’m available.”

Tony watched him go, then turned back to his monitor as Fletch arrived, Cooper a few paces behind. 

McGee’s voice floated back down the stairs: “And hey... I’m happy for you.”

The last sentence made Tony grin. “Well,” he murmured to himself, dragging another training day to a new date, “let’s see if we can do ‘functional couple’ in real life too.”

Chapter Text

Officially dating Ziva a second time around wasn’t exactly fireworks (unless he counted the sex) - Tony supposed they were both too old for that - but it was good. 

Life moved on. Work moved on. Dates got pencilled in between errands, yoga classes, debriefs, work trips, or just sometimes needing a night off. He wasn’t sure when, but something like a routine had fallen into place; Tuesday evenings at his, Friday turning into Saturday at hers - usually, by the time he woke up, she was already at yoga, but she always left the coffee on. 

Sometimes he’d wait for her to get back, other times he’d go do his own thing. That was new, and Tony was surprised by how okay that felt. 

He didn’t always need to fill the gaps in between. Once, when she’d gone out with some of her FBI colleagues (not her team, she drew a clearer line than Team Gibbs ever had), he’d used the opportunity to drag McGee and Jimmy to that laser tag place he’d considered for team building. Jimmy had turned out to be surprisingly cutthroat, and McGee had sprained something. Tony claimed victory by default until a 12-year-old sniped them all from a corner. But, most of the time, he didn’t feel the need to distract himself or make the hours pass more quickly. He was always happy to see her when they got together again, but he’d stopped counting the minutes until they did. 

They met in between too, for spontaneous outings, a movie or a restaurant date. Other times for a post-work, pre-dinner rendezvous when they both happened to be free and in the mood (usually their schedules were more difficult to align than the mood - that particular flame was well and truly blazing all over again.) 

There were times when they couldn’t make it at all, cases running long and exhaustion winning out, or a sleep-in or early briefing meant their almost daily coffee dates couldn’t take place. And that was fine, too. Someone texted, usually apologetic, occasionally just blunt and factual, and they’d try again another day. 

That was maybe the biggest shift of all - they said no. Sometimes, there was a practical excuse like a diary clash, but sometimes, one of them just needed space. It wasn’t personal, more often just time after a rough case to recalibrate before facing the world again. And the thing that still surprised him, in a good way, was that they asked for it. They didn’t ghost each other. There was no vanishing, no sulking, just space asked for and given. 

Occasionally, one of them would pull a ding-dong ditch - a chocolate bar, a takeout container, a bottle of wine - left on the doorstep as a quiet "thinking of you, here when you’re ready again." Other times, nothing at all, and there didn’t have to be. The concept of silence no longer came with resentment and sharp edges as it once had. 

They even went on a double date, to meet the famous Delilah - something Tony would have once dreaded for its sheer predictability. It turned out to be more fun than he’d expected. 

Delilah held her own in the conversation despite being technically the “outsider” among three people with years of shared history. She got a quick rundown of their backstory and promptly recognised them as Tommy and Lisa, despite McGee’s groaning protests. Ziva stole three bites of Tony’s risotto, wouldn’t share her dessert, and held his hand between courses.

At one point, McGee said, “It’s good to see you like this.”

Tony didn’t have to ask what he meant. It felt good like this, too. Later, when Ziva leaned in to say something only he could hear and laughed at her own joke, he figured that explained it anyway.

There were rules, too, but they didn’t feel as difficult as the ones set during their initial not-dating-but-still-kissing setup. Outside of the obvious ‘this is exclusive’ agreement (a no-brainer for them both: if Tony had Ziva’s attention, he didn’t want anyone else’s, and when Ziva said she didn’t share, she meant the attention she gave as well as received), the main one was that they spent worknights in their own bed. 

Sometimes that meant he’d end up tiptoeing down her hallway not long before midnight, still fixing his tie. Others, it was checking that the old bat across the hall from him was safely indoors before Ziva left, but they stuck to it. No drama. No discussion. Just a quiet, shared understanding, they’d done the insular, co-dependent thing once already, and they weren't going back. 

Talks about the future were off limits, too. Not in a scary or dangerous way. Just quietly shelved till they were both ready for it. There was a mutual agreement that what they were doing now was about creating a solid foundation. Whatever got built on it was still a way off. That too felt better than before, there wasn’t a defined endpoint yet, but he knew this time, they were heading in the same direction. 

They weren’t running from anything. Not hiding behind labels or sex or the rush of starting over. It was... steady. Boring, maybe. In the best possible way.

He mentioned it once, after a coffee date with Abby - who, after lecturing them on how badly they’d upended her entire emotional equilibrium the first time around, had gone from standoffish and foreboding to cautiously optimistic - and the guy she was sort-of talking to. 

On the way back to his place, they’d reached the unanimous prediction that this guy would not be there the next time they caught up with her; he was far more enamoured with the visuals of going out with someone who looked like Abby than the experience of actually going out with Abby. When they’d reached his apartment, Ziva had offered to cook, and he’d remembered a basket of clean laundry he hadn’t folded. 

“You do realise, we’re that boring couple now, Zi?” he chuckled, dumping the clothes out onto the sofa to sort them. 

Ziva, in the midst of putting together a salad to go with the steaks that were dangerously close to their best before but still good, now resting on a warmed plate, didn’t look up. “‘Boring couples’ do not do what we did in the shower last night,” she said. 

Tony snorted, shaking the wrinkles out of a t-shirt. “Fair point. Or the coffee table last week,” he added. 

“You started that!” Ziva reminded him. A coffee mug had come out the worst in that arrangement. 

Tony beamed. “I regret nothing.” He folded the shirt and added it to the pile. “But still. Laundry and making dinner after critiquing one of our friends’ dates. It’s practically a rom-com montage.” 

“Hmm.” She raided the fridge for salad dressing, still not quite smiling. “Does that make us the best friends who realise they’ve been in love the whole time, or the chaotic exes rediscovering each other over wine and unresolved trauma?”

Tony grinned. “Both, probably. Or maybe we’re in a reality TV show, some weird social experiment.”

She shook her head, turning back to the counter. “If you start narrating our lives in a voiceover, I will stab you.”

He wandered over, sock in hand, and poked her lightly in the side. “You wouldn’t. You said my kitchen knives were ‘an insult to weaponry.’” Tony was much less precious about his kitchenware than Ziva, and she made sure he knew it. 

“Exactly,” she said, deadpan. “Why do you think I rarely cook here?”

“Why do you think I keep them so blunt? It’s a protective measure against murderous girlfriends,” he replied, poking her again.

Without missing a beat, Ziva caught his wrist, twisted - just enough to throw him off balance - and swept his leg halfway out from under him. “You think I need weapons to injure you?” 

He caught himself on the counter with a breathless laugh. “Okay. Not boring.”

She raised an eyebrow. “You were saying?” She let him find his feet again. 

“I was saying, ” he caught her waist and pulled her in, “ - this is all very mature. And calm. And healthy.”

“Mm.” Her fingers rested lightly on his chest. “And clearly still dangerous.”

The kiss was meant to be quick. It wasn’t. The steaks got cold. The salad wilted. The entire load of laundry needed to be rewashed.

Tony never used the word boring again. 

Chapter Text

It wasn’t supposed to happen. 

They’d been keeping the no sleepovers on worknights rule almost religiously for the better part of three months. Weekends, sure. Friday nights at Ziva’s always blurred into Saturday mornings, and as their ability to manage their relationship without feeling completely overtaken grew, sometimes those Saturday mornings turned into Saturday nights as well. But Sunday through Thursday, no matter how good the sex had been, or how late it got, someone always went home. 

It had started one Wednesday - they’d both been stuck in the same traffic jam on Connecticut Avenue. Tony had rung Ziva to warn her not to take that route only to discover she was four cars behind him anyway. Ziva was antsy because she wanted to get to her evening yoga class. (They had $10 riding on what colour the Leggings And Hair Woman would sport that week, Tony said purple, Ziva said orange.) Tony was just sick of the gridlock, and they’d talked the rest of the drive back to Dupont Circle. Ziva also hadn’t eaten since breakfast - something about a meeting running overtime, he hadn’t caught the rest - the car behind him got impatient and their horn achieved nothing aside from muffling Ziva’s rant. 

Given that she was still determined to make it to yoga - she said she needed it - Tony offered to meet her at her place with takeout afterwards. Takeout had turned into a movie with her feet in his lap and a foot rub. That turned into Ziva massaging the kinks out of his neck, which turned into making out on the couch, and that had turned into their moods and calendars both being very much in alignment. 

He’d meant to leave and had even been keeping an eye on the clock for a while. But Ziva had been boneless and warm and halfway on top of him, and his eyes were getting heavier by the second. There was still over half an hour till their self-imposed curfew, so a power nap to enjoy a few minutes more with her had felt - at the time - reasonable. 

Then it was morning. 

Early morning, spring turning summer, sunrise beginning to creep around the edges of her blinds, her alarm blaring on the bedside table. This was definitely not leaving; this was sleeping over on a work night. 

Shit. 

“Do not even start, I can hear you thinking,” Ziva murmured into his neck. 

“Sorry,” he muttered. “I meant to get up...” 

“You were snoring by ten oh three,” she whispered against his skin with an understanding kiss “It’s fine.”

He shifted her off his shoulder and rolled to face her. “DiNozzos don’t snore!” 

One side of her curls was crushed flat, the other a tangled halo, her eyes were still sleepy and warm. Her smirk provided the unspoken answer about his snoring. 

She looked too good to resist, and he kissed her good morning. “We have work,” he added, softer. 

“We do,” she agreed. “And we even have time to meet up at the cafe before we start.” 

He lifted his arm to glance at his watch, and she took the opportunity to roll against his chest. His arms closed around her, and they stayed there for another breath or two, sunk deep into the mattress, the way bodies did after a full night together. It felt...dangerous. Not because it was fast or intense or too much - just because it was easy. A kind of ease that once, a long time ago, had slowly become isolation. They weren’t doing that again.

“Okay, so new plan,” he said, more for himself. “I get the heck out of here, and we meet back up at the cafe like none of this ever happened. And tomorrow night, you kick me out at eleven like always.” 

Ziva frowned slightly, moving back to look at him. “You do not have to pretend, Tony. Overcorrecting will not change that this happened.” 

“I’m not - “

“You are a little.” Her hand traced down his shoulder. “We said we would go home on work nights to avoid what we had before. The chaos and the excuses, and locking ourselves up to hide from everything else. You were tired, Tony. So was I. I was going to wake you at half past, but then I fell asleep, too.” 

She shrugged, her hair falling into her face a little, and when he reached to push it away, his fingers got caught in a snag. “But this is not the same as before. And acting like it could be the start of disaster - like we are about to relapse all over again - then that makes everything we have gotten right so far seem like it is worthless.” 

She had a point. “Yeah,” he agreed, seeing reason. “Yeah, okay.” 

A sleepy smile crept around her lips. “Good, because it is far too early to be talking you down from the edge of a spiral.” 

“No spiral,” he assured, skimming her thigh. Warm, but not starting anything, it would be a waste of perfectly good proximity if he didn’t touch her while they were still wrapped up in this. “But maybe a little low-grade panic.” 

“Too early for that, too.” She kissed him, meeting his energy. Lazy and unhurried, happy in the closeness, but not the kind that would really go anywhere. “But, if this is not to be different, we need to get up and do things differently,” she added. 

Tony nodded, dropping a kiss to her forehead. “Agreed. No hiding. No skipping breakfast. No sex against the fridge while we wait for the coffee.”

Ziva smirked. “Good thing we are going to the cafe instead. Go home, get ready, we will meet at the cafe like usual, but without pretending we did not wake up together.” 

He let out a breath. “So this can be a one-off, but not a mistake?”

She cocked her head. “Maybe not even a one-off. Maybe occasional is allowed. If we’re smart. If it’s earned.”

He considered that. “Okay. Occasional. Like leap years. Or solar eclipses. Or you watching a football game voluntarily.”

“Do not push it.” Her eyes narrowed. “But next time... and there will be a next time, maybe not right away, but it will happen. Next time, I do not want you to act like spending time with me is something you regret. Clear?” 

“Crystal.” He grinned and kissed her once more. They began the process of untangling, sorting out clothes. Ziva slipped into her robe and tossed his shirt at him.

“No run this morning?” he asked, noticing that she headed for the wardrobe, not the drawer where her workout gear lived. 

“No,” she replied. “I am due a rest day. But I am still going straight to the cafe. I have that video conference this morning.” 

Tony fastened his jeans and sat back on the edge of the bed to pull his socks on. “Ah, right... and what language will you be using this time?” 

“Just English... but I will be pretending I do not understand Turkish if they forget to mute themselves,” she answered.

“Thatta girl,” he chuckled, fumbling with his cuffs. “Okay, I’ll see you at the cafe in... 90 minutes?” It was still early, after all. 

They moved as one, out into the hallway and paused before they needed to separate, Ziva to the bathroom door, Tony to the exit. 

“Forty. I need time for a second coffee before this conference,” Ziva groaned. She stopped and kissed him once more. “But, it was nice, waking up with you,” she added. 

It had been nice, usually on Saturday mornings, Tony woke alone, Ziva already out for a run, immediately followed by yoga. Actually waking beside her, and having a few minutes together before facing the day, was new all over again. 

“Yeah, maybe we should do this again sometime.” He tugged on the sash of her robe gently. “Okay, I’m out of here. Text me when you’re leaving, yeah?” 

“I will.” Ziva disappeared towards the bathroom, and a second later, he heard the water start up. 

Tony headed out to the lounge, gathering his jacket. He patted his pockets, phone, keys, wallet. His shoes were by the front door. It was earlier than he’d usually be up, but it didn’t feel like sneaking out. They both had things to do. Lives that didn’t revolve entirely around the other, and somehow fitted almost seamlessly. 

It didn’t feel like he should stay longer. He didn’t need to leave a note or make sure there was no trace he’d been there - he could still see their takeout containers on the counter. 

He’d see her again in less than an hour, but even if he didn’t, his day was already off to a good start. No drama, no spirals, no bad omens. 

Funny thing was, they hadn’t planned this. No big talk, no ground rules adjusted, no dramatic moment of mutual understanding. It had just... happened. They’d drifted into sleep and woken up still on the same page, no worse for wear. That kind of quiet progress wasn’t flashy, but it was real and still managed to take him completely by surprise at how understated it all felt. 

Tony locked the door behind him and headed down the hall, already picturing her at their usual table, coffee in hand, pretending not to smile when he walked in.

Maybe progress didn’t always need a declaration. Maybe sometimes, it was just a really good start to the day. 

Chapter Text

Tony hadn’t needed an alarm. He rarely did with Ziva and her infallible body clock, even when it was an hour earlier than usual. Of course, an early airport drop off meant the weeknight sleepover lost some of its novelty but another half hour together before Ziva disappeared to New York for two days softened the blow. 

They’d woken early enough that they could shower together, and Tony made the coffee while Ziva checked her bags one last time. Breakfast had been shared quickly, and they were out the door in plenty of time. They’d never really forgotten how to share a space, and as the number of weekday mornings they shared grew - not quite often enough for his apartment to feel abandoned, but enough to warrant purchasing a second toothbrush to keep at her place - a kind of quiet routine had crept in. Domestic, sure, but not dull. There were still long kisses, the odd round of morning shower sex and sleepy groans of “five more minutes” - but it stayed at five. Nobody was late. Nobody panicked. It worked.

The roads were clear enough that Ziva didn’t fight when Tony said he’d drive, and she didn’t point out gaps in the traffic that she would have launched into at twice his speed. Even with the easy flow, he could tell she was annoyed - her phone pinged, and she muttered something under her breath that he was fairly sure wouldn’t make the reply. 

“Not going to get arrested before you’ve cleared security, are you?” he asked lightly.

“No,” she sighed, dropping her phone back in her bag. “Someone just thought it would be a great idea to change the agenda at the last minute.” 

“Well, the B on your vest does stand for bureau, as in bureaucracy,” he chuckled. “What does that mean for you?” 

“What it means,” she said, rifling through her handbag again, “is no hotel check-in until after my first meeting. And I’m stuck there until at least two.”

Tony caught a glimpse of her boarding pass and ID as she pulled them from a side pocket. “At least you packed light,” he said, nodding toward the small overnight bag in the backseat. “This is for that drug trafficking overlap, right?”

Ziva nodded. “New York’s been building a case that crosses paths with one of ours. It is mostly coordination, comparing timelines, seeing how many people are involved in both cities.”

He took the offramp to the airport. “No field work? Just meetings and bureaucratic infighting that could have been emails?” 

“Exactly,” she sighed again. “And two nights in a hotel because they couldn’t work out how to reply all.” 

Tony raised an eyebrow. “All this effort and no private jet?”

Ziva huffed. “Apparently, drug trafficking does not rate high enough for private flights. Just a middle seat in economy.”

He winced. “That’s cruel. But, if you find yourself at a loose end in the evenings, why don’t you call Dad?” he suggested, slowing at a yellow light. “He’d jump at the chance to take you out for dinner - just make sure he pays.” 

Ziva turned to look at him curiously. “You would be okay with me seeing your father?” 

He shrugged, turning into the airport. “Sure, why not? He’s mad about you. And you’re his daughter-in-law... were... are... whatever.”

“Whatever,” she agreed with a small smile. “Not a conversation for thirty seconds before I get out of the car.” 

“Good call,” he pulled the car into the drop off lane. “But yeah, call him if you want. He knows we’re on again, and he’s happy about it. Here you are, madam, and with more than an hour to spare, just the way you like it.” He pulled on the parking brake. 

Ziva unbuckled her seatbelt. “I will then. Assuming I don’t get roped into federal dinners and keeping up appearances.” She leaned over to kiss him, not too long, but enough to last the couple of days she’d be gone. “Thanks for driving. I’ll miss you.” 

“You too, Ninja. Hey, check the glovebox. I know you said no magazines this time, because you’ve got that novel you’re trying to finish, but...” 

Ziva popped the latch. “Chewing gum,” she laughed, pocketing the little package. “Thank you.” She reached over into the back, retrieved her bag and opened the door. 

“Text me when you land, yeah?” he asked, as casually as if they’d done this a hundred times before, and it wasn’t the first time since they’d gotten back together. 

She nodded back, just the same. “Of course.” She shouldered her bags and shut the door. 

He watched for a minute as she disappeared into the terminal, moving briskly. No drama, no sense of foreboding. When they had been married, right when the strain and silence had really begun to sink its claws in, she’d gone away with one of the secondary teams as their translator. Tony had spent the whole week on tenterhooks, not entirely sure if she’d bother coming back and not entirely sure he’d mind if she didn’t. This time, it was just another day of work for them both. No promises to be made, or broken, they’d text, she’d be back. That was fine. 

A horn honked behind him. With a half-hearted wave and a mutter to himself that patience was dead in America, he pulled back into the traffic.

Although they’d agreed that they wouldn’t call unless something exploded - literally or metaphorically - that didn’t stop the texts. 

Ziva (8.13am) 

Landed, already in a car. Just checking you didn’t go to the cafe. 

Tony (8.14am)

No, we agreed. No cafe till you’re back. I know better than that. You’ve probably tipped Fern to snitch on me if I do. Finished your novel? 

Ziva (8.15am)

No. The woman next to me knitted the whole time, and counted her stitches aloud. 

Tony (8.15am)

Ouch. Maybe we’ll add earplugs to the gum and magazines next time. Team is rolling in, I’m gonna go get Coop to go make some good coffee. Go be brilliant, don’t kill anyone. You’ll hate the paperwork. 

Ziva (8.17am)

Pulling up. Have a good day. Tell the owls I say hi xx 

---

Nothing exploded during the training seminar organised for the building, but it did keep him off the phone till almost lunch break. 

Ziva (10.04am)

They decided I should present. Apparently I lay out timelines clearly. 

Ziva (10.15am)

Thought you’d be telling me not to intimidate anyone by now? 

Ziva (10.45am)

In dire need of moral support. I just had to explain the overlapping timelines and shipment patterns of the trafficking network to the entire room of FBI agents, four of whom are named Doug. 

Tony (12.14pm)

Sorry. Communication training. Abby taught some ASL, she confiscated our phones. She even tried for Vance’s. And FOUR Dougs - is that even legal? But, I’ve heard your presentation voice, telling you not to intimidate anyone is like asking a lion to purr softer. (Even if I think that voice is sexy.) 

Ziva (12.17pm)

You did not just text me that while I am sitting in a federal office. Lucky my poker face has gotten even better over the years. 

Tony (12.18pm)

I’ve done worse to you in a federal office. Poker face that, David.

Ziva (12.19pm)

I am fine, but how well can you manage? Because I know exactly which office you mean... and I would say what you did was better, not worse. After the Manelli case - the one with the melted crayons in the carpet? 

Tony (12.24pm)

Pulling that memory when you’re not here to relive it is playing dirty. It took Fletch three tries to get my attention to find out what I wanted for lunch. Coop was weirdly enthusiastic to go with her. I guess the team building stuff is working at last. 

Ziva (12.25pm)

I cannot be held responsible for what you imagine. And you started it. But if you need a cold shower, picture four Dougs eating tuna sandwiches in a closed room. 

Tony (12.27pm)

That’s what you’re dealing with? Yikes. I’ll take the desk after the Manelli case, no matter how hard it is to focus on anything else. 

Ziva (12.28pm)

So would I! Remember the sound I made? It may have been six years, but I’m sure you do.

Tony (12.30pm)

Ziva I’m in the bullpen. You can’t do this to me. (But do, by all means.)

Ziva (12.31pm)

And I’m stuck in a lunch meeting in a federal office, surrounded by suits who all like the sound of their own voice better than anything else. I need something better to think about too. 

Tony (12.33pm)

And what might you be thinking, exactly, Ms David? 

Ziva didn’t reply for a few minutes, Tony began to wonder if she’d finally snapped and had to murder Dougs one through four. 

Her reply arrived at 12.43, right as Cooper and Fletch returned with food. Tony read it once. Then again just because it took that long to sink in. 

There were no photos, no emojis. Just her words. Terrifyingly detailed, anatomy-specific words. Creative in a way that would definitely get him arrested, or possibly fired if anyone else knew the pictures it brought to mind on paid time. 

He made a choked noise somewhere between a laugh and a cough, possibly a whimper and set his phone face down just so he wouldn’t be tempted to read it again. Not that he didn’t want to, but he didn’t think he could handle another time. At least not at his desk, surrounded by his team. 

Cooper looked up from unpacking lunch. “You good, boss?”

Tony nodded vaguely. “Yep. Great. Just, uh...” He grabbed a bottle of water off the desk like it was life-saving. “Gotta hydrate, you know. Very important.” 

No one questioned it, although they all shared glances that spoke too clearly about how weird they thought he was being.

Tony needed air. Or a distraction. How on earth had she written that - at a cheap Formica table in a windowless conference room, surrounded by men named Doug - and kept a straight face? Meanwhile if this had been a poker game, his bluff would have been called three hands ago, he was pretty sure the tips of his ears were actually smouldering. 

Well. Sexting. This was new. They hadn’t done this the first time - hadn’t had the space to need to think about it, or miss each other that much. And she’d only been gone five hours. 

Still, spontaneous combustion wasn’t the worst way to go. At least, he’d die smiling.

Chapter Text

Before Tony had even got his thoughts straight, there was a call about a body in the Anacostia River. Ziva texted “Busy” about a minute later, right when he’d been about to send her the same thing. 

The synchronicity made him grin. The case, less so. The body had obviously been under for several days and was lodged against some rocks. Everything that could have dragged out, did. From the body being too waterlogged for fingerprint ID, to delayed DNA samples and an agency-wide backlog that had Fletcher muttering multilingual curses under her breath, that Tony sympathetically chose to ignore. By the time he got home that evening, everything hurt, a good part of him was damp, and Ziva had messaged that she’d been dragged out for an overpriced, underwhelming dinner with the NYC team and was going to bed early with a headache.

The next day was much the same. The body belonged to a Naval officer who was supposed to be on leave, but was very much not in Jamaica as his CO expected. Then came the task of determining if the leave was real or simply a cover for whatever had led to his death. That, too, was long and tedious, involved another trudge through the crime scene, and to add to it, they found themselves stonewalled at almost every turn and slowed further by whatever system backlog had started the day before. It was bad enough that McGee had come down from his position on high and taken Fletcher with him to wrangle the Cyber Team. It left Tony’s crew down a member, which slowed things more, although they did seem to work together better than before - even if Hanson pointed out that Cooper was in some weird distant fugue, gazing at Fletch’s empty desk. 

By the time Tony got home, the case finally closed, his first stop was to scrub away the remains of the riverbank. Post-shower, he was relieved to find texts that had built up throughout the day from Ziva. He scrolled through the collection; snarky commentary about the rotation of meetings and more complaints about Doug #3, who had escalated from tuna to egg salad. He reheated a tub of leftover pilaf Ziva had sent him home with a few days earlier, and settled down, fork in one hand, phone in the other. 

Tony (9.30pm)

Home. Mud in places I don’t want to think about. Body in the river. Half the computer network down. Delays all round. Fletcher swore. Abby almost cried. Accidental drowning in the end, but it would have been easier if the guy who knocked him in just said that instead of cooking up an elaborate alibi. How’s your night going?

Ziva (9.32pm)

I do not miss those cases! Tonight was better than yesterday. I just got back from dinner with your father. It was still overpriced, but he was showing off. And yes, he paid. 

Ziva (9.33pm) 

But... you should know... there is no sense of “whatever” in his mind. Nothing has changed for him in the way he sees me.

 

He paused, fork halfway to his mouth. This felt more like an in-person conversation. But if she was bringing it up over text, it was either far more or far less important than it seemed. He hesitated for a minute trying to find the right balance of light but not too irreverent to use in his reply. 

 

Tony (9.36pm)

Okay. Are you okay with that? He once asked how he could get custody of you instead of me when we split up, you know. 

Ziva (9.40pm) 

I know. He was very clear he had never stopped thinking of me in that way. He toasted to a brighter future, and just winked when I told him we were taking it slow. But I think he’s just hopeful, not disillusioned. 

 

Okay, less important. That was good, he knew how pushy Senior could come across. Not that they weren’t both treating this as a permanent arrangement, but the big talks still hadn’t been had and he didn’t need his father sounding like he was speaking on his behalf. 

(Ziva 9.41pm)

But yes... I am okay. It is nice that one of our fathers is happy. Mine never liked you, god only knows what he would say now! I suppose I should email him at some point. 

He grimaced at the thought of having to speak to Eli again, and dropped his dishes in the sink, then padded down to the bedroom to get comfortable there instead. 

Tony (9.44pm)

Yeah, I don’t think I ever made it onto your father’s list of acceptable men. Pretty sure I wasn’t even on his list of acceptable humans. Maybe leave contacting Eli until life feels boring and you need some excitement because we both know that’s going to turn the world inside out.
But I’m glad Dad was okay and didn’t try and propose to you again on my behalf or something. 

Ziva (9.45pm) 

He did make me promise if we ever remarried we have an actual ceremony where he could dance with me. But anyway, what’s the new tally of pranks on Cooper for this week? 

 

Okay, change of topic, it really wasn’t bugging her. He could run with that. 

 

Tony (9.47pm)

Surprisingly few. They’re working as a team. The girls aren’t ganging up on Cooper anymore. He and Fletch actually have synced playlists now. I knew all those team building plans were good for something. 

Ziva (9.48pm) 

What team do you think is being built exactly Tony? 

Tony (9.50pm)

An incredibly coordinated, highly skilled investigative unit. With overlapping music tastes, which is weird but it seems to work for them. What are you getting at?

Ziva (9.51pm) 

Nice. Sounds like they’re getting closer. Fletcher and Cooper in particular. 

Tony (9.52pm) 

Well, yeah, they’re finally starting to mesh as a team. 

Ziva (9.52pm) 

If you say so, but I can hear Rule 12 being broken all over again. You mentioned lunch breaks yesterday too. And now less pranks and shared playlists. Watch those two. 

Tony (9.54pm) 

No. Just because we did doesn’t mean they are. Let me bask in the success of my leadership skills without twisting it. 

Ziva (9.56pm) 

Fine, bask away. But remember I warned you. Next time Cooper is locked in the copier room, do not be surprised when Fletcher is in there with him. 

Tony (9.57pm) 

Bringing up the copier room again is cruel when I’m still recovering from that text you sent yesterday. 

Ziva (9.59 pm) 

Oh, so you did not forget about that while you were on your case? I was beginning to think you didn’t like it.

 

Oh, she was fishing with that one. There was no way she’d sent that with any doubt about how well it would be received. He could practically see that amused, too-innocent smirk on her face as she typed. 

Tony (10.02pm) 

No, no, I liked it very much. Public decency was very much at risk if I stood up too fast. I had to pretend to tie my shoes twice over before I could go solve The Mystery of the Floater at Buzzard Point. You described things I didn’t know you had words for - you were alarmingly precise. 

Ziva (10.05pm) 

Good to know that I can get your attention, even from here. But, there is no sense knowing how to do them if you cannot ask for them by name. I always thought you liked my precision? 

Tony (10.06pm) 

I still do. But I had to avoid eye contact with my imagination while trying to talk to witnesses. You are very distracting Ms David. The 16 hours until you get back suddenly feel like a very long time. 

Ziva (10.08pm)

They do... and your imagination is not the only one running wild. 

Tony (10.10pm) 

And what might be going on inside your head right now? 

Ziva (10.12pm)

Filling the blanks in that message I sent yesterday. There were a lot of details I left out. 

 

Suddenly the comforter felt far too warm, and he kicked it off. It didn’t help. 

Ziva (10.13pm)

I would be happy to call and give you a thorough rundown. We both have time to concentrate now, to give these details the proper focus they deserve. 

Tony (10.14pm) 

A tempting offer, but wasn’t the rule only call if there was an explosion? You know, urgent life-or-death kind of situations? 

Ziva (10.17pm)

But if the fuse has already been lit? The question is not if anymore but when... and if you are brave enough to do anything about it. And I promise you, it may not be life or death but this is urgent. 

Tony (10.19pm) 

Oh... that kind of explosion. In that case, consider me the First Responder. 

He winced a little at his own message. Corny. So corny. He tossed the phone lightly onto the sheet and leaned back, hand scrubbing over his face.

A few seconds later, the screen lit up again.

Ziva (10.20pm)

Tick, tick... 

 

Tony stared at the screen for a second, the message not quite making sense. Most of his brain was revisiting the paragraphs she’d sent yesterday and wondering how she could possibly expand on something already that eloquent didn’t leave much processing power now. 

His phone screen got brighter, an incoming call - Ziva. Oh. 

Suddenly, it all clicked. The playful pause, the warning, the promise in those two little words. This wasn’t just a message anymore. It was an invitation. 

He answered, voice low and amused - already anticipating what happened next. 

“Boom.”

Chapter Text

By the time Tony and Ziva were about four months in, they began to spend unplanned time together. Days when they weren’t specifically on a date or visiting for dinner, just hanging out in the same space simply to kill time, without it feeling codependent or suffocating. 

It was one such Saturday, a few days before his birthday. He was watching baseball, the one sport Ziva said she liked. However, she was alternating between the game and a book, her bare feet in Tony’s lap. He was supposed to be massaging them, but mostly he just rested his hands on the top, squeezing whenever he yelled at the players.

The TV went to an ad break, and he remembered what he was supposed to be doing. He’d only passed his thumbs firmly under the ball of her foot once when her phone rang. Checking the caller ID, she hesitated, her body language suddenly cautious. Heaving a sigh, she answered, getting up to move away from Tony and the TV noise as she answered.

“Shalom.” 

The rest of the call was lost on him; he only knew a handful of Hebrew, and this was fluent, rapid-fire. Far too quick for him to catch. The tone was more obvious, at first she was tense, and then angry. The call ended abruptly, although he couldn’t quite tell whether she had hung up or been hung up on.

“Hey Zi, you all good?” He turned to look behind him when she didn’t sit back down, instead staying in the kitchen, pacing, her fists clenched by her sides. 

Ziva didn’t stop moving. “Do I look good, Tony?” she snapped. 

He kept his tone even, shifting his whole body to face her now. “Whoa, just wanted to know if you were ok, you seem kinda shaken.” 

Ziva didn’t answer right away, just coming to a stop behind the counter where she braced herself on the edge of it. Her other hand curled across her stomach, defensive.

“I emailed my father last night,” she said finally. 

He blinked. “Eli?” he asked blankly. That was quicker than he’d expected from the way she’d mentioned it in texts. 

“No, the other one,” Ziva shot back dryly. “Yes, Eli. I told him about us. That it is serious.” 

“Ah...” He nodded for a second. “I take it that didn’t go so well?” 

Ziva laughed, hollow and humourless. “You could say that.” She drifted towards the fridge, rearranging his magnets absently. 

“And are you talking about it upset, or needing space upset?” he asked softly. They’d squabbled a few times by now, quick, silly things, a snarky line or two that blew over fast with no long-lasting issues. This was different, the first real test of something delicate. 

She stayed quiet for a minute, staring at a photo on the fridge. It was one from Abby, taken during a second meeting - as predicted the guy they’d met the first time was history. They were laughing, looking at each other instead of Abby’s phone. What was meant to be posed had become soft and candid. 

“Talking,” she said slowly. “But possibly not calmly.” 

“Right,” he reached for the remote and switched off the TV. “Commence unloading.” 

Ziva stayed staring at the fridge. “He said that I must not have learned from my mistakes the first time. That coming back to you is stupid, weak. I have gotten my priorities wrong again; my loyalty to my job should always come first. That I am lowering myself by associating with someone so far beneath me, who is not a match for my skills.” 

That knocked the breath out of him for a second. He’d always known Eli didn’t like him - loathed, probably and the feeling was mutual - but hearing it like this, twisted into a weapon against Ziva, left him speechless. 

“He said that I have lost myself and grown soft. He said that a real operative knows how to cut ties and keep moving.” Her voice cracked for a second. “As though you were some kind of mission I should have finished with years ago. He said I am disappointing. That I should know better than to align myself again to someone who - ” Her mouth tightened and she shoved a magnet roughly, colliding with the door handle. “Someone who failed me once. That I’m repeating history. That he was right.”

Tony swallowed his own instinct to argue with that. She needed space to get it out, not his input. 

“I saw him in Israel, after we divorced. All he ever said was, ‘I told you so.’ And now he says the same thing again. As if coming back to you means I have learned nothing. He never even asked why we broke. He just assumed it was because of you. Because you’re loud. American. Because you don’t understand what it is to be Mossad or Jewish or Israeli. I never got the chance to tell him about the pregnancy. About how I failed you.” 

That he couldn’t let sit. “Zi,” he said softly. “That wasn’t your fault. We both heard the doctor say it was just one of those things. Don’t think I blame-”

“I know.” She cut him off, but not roughly. “I know you don’t. I mean after. The way I shut you out. He knows none of it. Even if I had told him, he would not hear it anyway. And he dares to act like it was your fault.” She turned suddenly, eyes blazing. “As if he knows anything about what went wrong. He blames you because that’s easier. Because you laugh too much, and don’t speak his language, and never begged for his approval. And then tries to shame me for choosing you again.”

Her hands clenched into fists at her sides again, as if she didn’t hold herself back, she’d throw something.

Tony stood, approaching carefully. It had been a long time since he’d seen her this visibly angry. He knew it wasn’t just this one phone call, it was all the history that she held with it. The judgement and the shame, the way Eli had always tried to mould Ziva into something she never wanted to be. 

He stopped on the other side of the counter, close enough to be heard, not enough to crowd her. “Ziva... listen. If this is gonna keep tearing you up inside, make you feel like less... just because your name goes with mine, then...” 

Ziva’s head whipped up, suddenly, almost like a strike. “No,” she ground out. “Don’t you dare.” 

He held a hand up, gently, asking to be heard out. “I mean it. I don’t want to. But I’ll walk away if that’s what it takes. If I’m just another way he gets to win... I don’t want to be the reason you lose yourself a second time.” 

Ziva stared at him like he’d grown two heads. ”Lose myself?” she repeated. “Maybe I did. We both did. But Tony, I also found myself. I spent five years finding myself. Alone. In a thousand places that had nothing to do with you. And nothing to do with Eli. I became someone I was proud of again, by myself, for myself.” 

She scoffed, almost incredulous. “Do you really think this is about what he thinks of you? That leaving would fix it? You do not get to do that. You do not get to offer me an out like you are doing me some kind of favour. Like we are some mistake I am too proud to walk away from.” 

Her voice dropped suddenly, low and fierce. “I am not here because I forgot how bad it hurt the first time. I’m here because I remember, because we learned from it. Because I chose you. The only thing that would do is break my heart all over again and prove him right after all.” 

He braced his hands on the counter, suddenly off-balance with her last statement. “Ziva...” he started, voice low, uncertain. “You just said break your heart like that’s still possible.” 

“Of course it is, it always has been,” she stated as plainly as she would tell him it was Saturday. “You have had my heart since the moment Saleem took the sack off my head.” 

He stayed quiet, not trusting himself to say the wrong thing.

“I am better when you are in my life, but I am still more than our relationship,” Ziva continued, her voice steady. “And I am more than what Eli thinks of me. The only time he approved is when I was trying to follow in his footsteps. It is not that I am choosing wrong, Tony. It is that I am choosing at all. That he did not get to make the decision.” 

She glanced at him briefly, but didn’t stop. “You do not get to protect me from this by walking away... you cannot. You are not the problem. You could leave me a thousand times and he would find something else to hold over me. I could be the perfect agent, the perfect daughter, the perfect soldier. I could become the Director of the FBI itself, and he would still say I have failed, because I chose to live life for myself, away from him.” 

He finally knew what to say. “Then screw what he thinks. You don’t owe him your life.”

Ziva’s mouth lifted in a small, bitter smile. “No. But he’s always acted like I do. I am not the one who has let him down, Tony. He let me down. Because he cannot be proud unless I am living a life that he would choose. Because he cannot understand that loyalty is not blind obedience, and love is not control.” She shook her head, quieter now. “He says I have grown soft, that I lost my edge. But what he really means is that I care. That I let myself feel. That I let someone in.” She shrugged, still angry but resolved. “And if that is weakness in his eyes... if loving you makes me less. Then so be it.” 

“Love?” he echoed, softly, a little surprised. 

“Of course, what did you think this was?” 

“Well...” he hesitated. “I just thought... maybe that wasn’t something we’d say this time around. Given how much we messed it up last time. Or at least... not without a whole scene. Talking it out, or almost fighting over it. I never thought you’d just drop it like that, like it’s not even a question.” 

Ziva tilted her head, looking a little softer now, less angry, more confident. “There is no question in my mind, Tony. I love you. I still love you.” She let that settle before continuing, voice steady, “There never has been. Even when we were running to different countries to get away from each other. There was a part of me that still loved you. I did not always know it... but it was there.” 

Tony didn’t say anything for a second, just stood there blinking. He hadn’t expected her to say it. Not like that. Not so... certain. It wasn’t like they’d been faking whatever this was. Not with how far they’d come. But that word - love - it still felt like something they’d burned through once already, and wouldn’t get back a second time. 

She’d said it like a fact. Like it had always been true. Which, he suddenly realised, it had. 

“Yeah,” he said at last, regaining the power of speech. “That tracks, actually.” 

She laughed, a little disbelieving. “That tracks? That is all you have to say?” 

“Well, my first instinct was ‘holy shit’, so I think that’s an improvement.” He shrugged sheepishly. “I think I figured it out. When we had that fight, and I thought you’d disappear again. It kind of hit me. Like, oh. That’s still there. Probably always has been.” 

He let out a slow breath, rubbed a hand over the back of his neck.

“But I didn’t really know what to do with it. I couldn’t think about that when I didn’t know where we stood, and I just... put it away.” His voice was quieter now. “But then I didn’t know if you’d think it was too soon, like we hadn’t earned it yet. But yeah... always have, really. Even if I forgot I did. Never had any other choice. It’s you, Zi. That’s all there is to it.” 

Ziva exhaled slowly, and Tony watched the tension drop from her shoulders. He came around the counter slowly, not sure if she was ready to be that close yet. But when he stopped in front of her, she didn’t step away. Just watched him with the same quiet certainty she’d used to say everything else.

“So,” he said lightly, “on a scale of one to total emotional immolation, how bad are we rating this? I heard you yelling back for a bit there.”

Ziva huffed, a tired sound. “Fifteen, at least,” she said dryly, but calmer now. The lines around her mouth eased. “We will probably not speak for a while. He is not my handler. He is not my boss. He is just my father, for better or for worse.” 

Tony nodded, his hands settling gently at her waist. “Okay. But if he calls again and says something else awful, I am going to stick his photo to your knife target.”

She almost smiled. “Maybe then your aim will improve. But Tony...” Her head lifted, meeting his eyes, serious now. “Do not ever do that again.” 

“Do what, exactly? Just so we’re both clear.” 

“Offer to walk away like that. Like it is some grand solution to someone else’s judgment.”

“I wasn’t -” he started, but her fingers caught his wrist, cutting him off.

“You were,” she said, firmly. “And I understand why. But if we are really doing this... then you do not get to decide for me when it is too hard. You do not get to disappear because you think you are saving me.”

Tony nodded. “Noted. No more dramatic offers of self-sacrifice.” 

“Good.” She leaned in until their foreheads touched, her voice low. “Even if we have both learned we can live without each other, I have no intention of repeating that a second time.” 

Tony let out a breath, his hands sliding around her back. “Me neither,” he promised. He had done fine as a bachelor again, but he had been stuck emotionally for a long time. Whatever progress he’d made after the divorce - whatever healing - it had only really started that day in the warehouse. Like she’d said about him, he was better with Ziva in his life. 

They stayed like that for a moment, close and quiet. Then Ziva pulled back just enough to meet his eyes. “You have not said it, you know,” she prompted. “You agreed with me, but you have not said so, not in so many words.” 

“Oh, right.” He hesitated for a second, not because he doubted it, but because it still felt a little surreal coming off the back of a no holds barred rant about her father, in a calm that had arrived far more quickly and easily than he’d expected and with Ziva waiting steadily, looking like she already knew. No drama, no theatrics, just three simple words. 

“I love you,” he said. 

Ziva smiled. “Good, now we are even.” 

Tony smiled back, relieved, a little wry. “So what now?”

“I'm staying for dinner,” she said simply, settling back against him. “And you finish my foot massage. Whatever that was before? Not a massage. You owe me.”

“God, woman,” he muttered, mock-weary, pressing a kiss into her hair. “You really know how to ruin a moment.”

Ziva laughed softly against his neck. “Ruining it,” she murmured, “would be leaving again.”

He held her tighter. “Not going anywhere.”

Chapter Text

On Monday, Tony noticed his favourite belt was missing. He checked the closet twice, pulled out his shoe rack to check behind it, and even called the dry cleaner just to make sure it hadn’t been in the last load he’d dropped off. 

It wasn’t like he didn’t have another option - he had plenty, in fact. But that one was his favourite, and the fact that it suddenly appeared to have vanished into thin air bugged him. 

It was the dark brown Armani, the one that went best with the navy blue Isaia suit he’d had made while he was in Naples. Hand-sewn buttonholes and the distinctive coral logo delicately embroidered on the lapel didn’t come cheap, but the fit, like it had grown on him, was worth every penny. Not to mention the way Ziva’s eyes lit up when she saw him wearing it. 

Ziva... he tried to think back to what he’d been wearing when he’d stayed on Friday night, but his mind, still pre-caffeine, was irritatingly blank. He pulled out his second choice - also dark brown and to the untrained eye a perfectly acceptable substitute, but he would know. 

He turned, searching for his phone, intending to text Ziva about it. He’d left wearing jeans, not the suit he’d come in, he could remember that much for sure. 

Instead, he found she’d already texted him. 

Ziva (6.13 am)

Double homicide, not going to make it for coffee. Say hi to Fern for me. Love you. 

 

He smiled at that last part, still new in their vocabulary - although not their emotions - that particular combination of seven letters had not yet lost its joy. He replied in kind, forgetting all about the belt and tossed the phone back onto the bed to keep getting dressed. 

The drive to the cafe was out of his way, especially with Ziva AWOL, but still felt worth it. Nothing within a mile radius of the Navy Yard had coffee quite like theirs, or a server quite like Fern, who had already rung up their usual order by the time he made it to the counter. 

“Just me today,” he said. “Zi’s already got called in. She says hi,” he added as Fern quickly tapped away at the register, removing Ziva’s half of the order. 

“Ahh,” she nodded sagely. “Well, sometimes roads diverge from each other for a little while, but they always come back together in the end.” 

He chuckled, tapping his card and fishing for a tip. “Hey, it’s just a clashing schedule, we’re fine. No need for psychoanalysis.” 

“Hmm.” Fern pursed her lips and her forehead, drawing his gaze to the sleeper in her eyebrow again. “You still look like you’re missing something.” 

He nodded, dropping some change in the jar. “Yeah, but not Ziva. Well, not like that, anyway. Just a case of the wandering accessories.” 

“I’m not even going to try to break that one down!” she declared with a laugh, reaching into the pastry cabinet. “But you know things have a habit of coming good right when you stop looking. And just in case, this claw’s got extra glaze... that’s bound to make your day better.” She straightened up with the bag. 

“Thanks,” he said, taking it. “Are you always this reassuring?” 

Fern smiled, tucking her plait behind her ear. “Only for regulars who tip like you do. Tell her the kitchen will have cheese danishes with that feta she likes by lunchtime.” She nodded down the counter to the waiting area, indicating she had more customers behind him. 

“Will do,” he agreed, taking the hint and moving along. “Thanks, Fern.” 

At the Navy Yard, the rest of the day unfolded like every other Monday in the history of Mondays. Hanson had a flat on the way in and arrived late and wrathful. Cooper managed to staple his tie into a report, and Fletcher spent her day zoned out with the new code she was using to try to isolate images in CCTV recordings faster. The copier on the second floor jammed, leading to a constant stream of people up and down the stairs to use theirs. There was a meeting that could have been an email, and so much paperwork to sign, Tony got a wrist cramp.

He texted Ziva a couple of times in the lulls but had no response. Just as he was contemplating making a paper dart to aim at Fletch to get her attention so he could tell her to go home before he had to sign for overtime McGee would frown on, she texted back. 

Ziva (5.43 pm) 

Still at the scene. Talk later xx 

He already knew she wouldn’t be calling; a case that kept you on scene for almost 12 hours did not leave bandwidth for chitchat. Across from him, Cooper took his leave, issuing a soft goodbye that Tony barely heard as he replied briefly to her text. 

Tony (5.47 pm) 

Okay, be safe. Text me when you’re home. Love you. 

 

By the time he looked up, Fletcher had left, too. How Cooper had shifted her when she’d not even heard the last three times he’d called her name, he wasn’t sure, but at least she was gone. 

When he got home, he dropped his keys, kicked off his shoes, and hung his jacket  - eyeing the empty space on the closet hook where the belt should’ve been. He went through an evening routine, cooking, a cursory tidy, some piano noodling, a movie and finally bed. 

Hopefully, both Ziva and the belt would be back where they belonged the next day.

In the morning, he realised Ziva had texted at 2 am and apparently he’d replied. Not that he remembered - it wasn’t even words, just a mash of letters that even autocorrect couldn’t save. His belt was still absent, too. He even gave the pantry a once-over when he rummaged for the bag of pretzels to make today’s job - approving his team’s summer leave requests and finding temporary replacements - more palatable. 

Normally, she’d check in by now. So, it looked like he was doing coffee solo again, a hunch which was confirmed when his phone dinged halfway to the cafe. She’d gotten something that resembled sleep but was heading straight to the office. 

Fern was her bubbly, reassuring self and promised to keep an almond croissant to the side just in case Ziva sent the new guy down on a coffee run. Tony paid for Ziva’s order in advance, telling Fern to consider it a tip if the order never came. 

Work stayed quiet. No one had requested conflicting leave dates, so that was mercifully simple. Fletcher made a breakthrough with her code, which Cooper, to his credit, despite not understanding a word, listened to her enthusiastic monologue as she declared triumph. 

Ziva texted a couple of times, brief updates, no details about her case, but enough for him to hear the strain creeping through. But Tuesdays were the night she visited him, so hopefully some penne alla vodka and a really good red would take the edge off. 

He was home and almost done cooking when she got in touch again. 

Ziva (7.55 pm) 

Need to take a rain check, sorry, my love. Leaving soon, but case still open. Exhausted does not begin to explain it. 

 

He could sympathise with that, and dug in his cabinets for the tub she’d sent him home with last time. When the food was done, he packed it up - topping it with the red pepper flakes she liked and a garnish of fresh basil, then walked it two doors down, let himself up to her floor and deposited the offering on her doorstep. She wouldn’t be home for at least twenty minutes, but at least she’d have something fresh and (reasonably) hot when she did. 

Her answer came an hour later in the form of a photo message. The food, a glass of wine and a lit candle resting on the tray that fitted over her bath. Her knees just peeked through the thick layer of bubbles in the water. 

Well, that was definitely better than nothing. Tony went to bed smiling.

On Wednesday, he swore he wasn’t going to look for his belt, but still checked every conceivable place it could have been. It was still missing. He switched to a charcoal suit so he could wear a black one instead. Just as nice, just as expensive, but still not the same. 

Ziva had texted an hour before his alarm, she was already at the cafe, apologetic but clear she wasn’t avoiding him, she just wanted to get in and get this case over with. When Tony got there, he discovered she had already paid for his order, and Fern cheerfully described whatever timeline misalignment they were currently living as “being on the same road in different lanes” and promised him Ziva looked tired, but fine. 

Work was busy enough to keep him from obsessing about missing Ziva (although three days in, he would have done just about anything to even set eyes on her, never mind hug her) or about his belt. 

Around four in the afternoon, his desk phone rang, an in-office call with an extension he immediately recognised as Legal. He groaned internally, externally told his team to leave whenever they were done because he knew this was going to take forever, and answered it. 

There’d been some lapse in a chain of evidence in a case they’d shared with the Coast Guard a month earlier. He’d been the last person to log it back into the evidence locker, and even though that had been three days before the box had been handed over to the Coast Guard, he was still somehow obliged to explain what had happened in the interim for a vital piece of evidence to go missing. 

He was right, it took forever. He wound up on a conference call with Legal, the guys down in evidence and a Coast Guard Liaison who kept aggressively repeating the words “per policy” like it was a mantra. By the time it was done (including reviewing the security footage to prove the box had not been touched in the time between him having it and Coast Guard collecting it - at which point the Coast Guard rep became uncomfortably quiet and said they would conduct more internal reviews) the bullpen was dark, with the night crew filtering in and janitors beginning to clean up. 

Finally able to leave, he gathered his things and checked his phone. 

Ziva (4.12 pm) 

Case closed, finally. Come to mine, we’ll order in. 

Ziva (5.07 pm) 

Ordering for you. Hope you’re in the mood for Thai. 

Ziva (6.30 pm) 

I take it you’re still working. I need to leave for yoga. Tomorrow? 

 

He huffed impatiently. They rarely saw each other on Wednesdays anyway, her downtime between work and yoga was often so brief it felt rushed, and afterwards she was usually too tired, but it figured the one day she got out early enough to make it worthwhile, he’d find himself stuck in a bureaucratic hostage situation.

Given that she’d already be ten minutes into her class, he waited until he was home - discovering chicken skewers and papaya salad in his fridge and a headache beginning to drill its way behind his eyes - to text her back. 

Tony (8.13 pm) 

Sorry, stuck on a conference call. Coast Guard have moved to the top of my hitlist. Also, when did you get a spare key? Skull feels like there’s a jackhammer inside, hitting the rack early. See you at the cafe?

Ziva (8.17 pm) 

Did you forget I can pick locks? You’re welcome, by the way. Yoga is done, but still at the studio. Sleep well, I’ll text in the morning. 

Tony (8.20 pm) 

Oh yeah, thanks. And next time, ask for a key. We’ll trade. 

 

He was asleep before her reply came. 

By Thursday morning, the headache had turned into a fever and aching chills. The empty hook on the belt hanger mocked him from where he’d forgotten to close the wardrobe before passing out. Before he could decide how close to death he really was, his phone chimed. 

Ziva (6.32 am) 

Not coming to the cafe or work. I think I’m dying. 

Tony (6.33 am) 

Ditto. Fever, chills, existential dread. You?

Ziva (6.35 am) 

Much the same. 

Tony (6.36 am)

Want to ride it out together?

Ziva (6.38 am) 

Not chance in hell. Best you’re getting is a CVS delivery on my account.

Tony (6.41 am)

Deal. I’ll send soup and tea. 

Ziva (6.42 am) 

And Kleenex. 

He snickered, then choked on the laugh. By the time he’d finished coughing, he hurt all over. They hadn’t even seen each other all week and had somehow come down with the same virus on the same day? Yeah, the universe was definitely having fun at their expense. 

He called in sick, not even needing to up the rasp in his voice to sound convincing enough to get two days off, and fumbled with the app until he worked out how to send the same groceries to two different addresses. Not that he wanted the tea, but he also couldn’t work out how to delete it once it was in his cart. 

By nine, the drugs were at his door, by ten, they were in such full effect he was fairly sure he was being haunted by the ghost of the missing belt. He heated the soup, tried to call Ziva, receiving only a terse “Go back to bed,” before she hung up, and then passed out himself. 

The rest of the day disappeared in half-remembered dreams and snippets of lucidity when he woke up to eat something or take more medication. Around dinnertime, he had enough energy to switch out the sweated-in sheets, a feat which he regretted when the body aches kicked back in, and he had another dose, crawled beneath the covers, then texted Ziva goodnight.

The next day, Friday, dawned with a feeling only slightly less like death. Bad enough to call in again, anyway. Hanson could hold them over on cold cases for another day, although the row of emojis she sent in reply told him she wasn’t exactly pleased. Then he checked in with Ziva. 

Tony (6.42 am) 

Alive, barely. Throat like barbed wire, but no fever. You?

Ziva (6.44 am) 

Ditto. No fever. Also, no voice. 

Tony (6.44 am) 

There’s connection in mutual suffering... a synchronicity of lowered immune responses, or something like that anyway. Don’t say I never share anything with you. 

Ziva (6.50 am)

Go back to sleep. And if you text me more gibberish while you’re high on medication again, I will block your number. 

He looked at the text he’d sent before passing out the night before. What was supposed to be a simple goodnight had at least twelve syllables and may have made sense if he’d intended to write in Polish. He decided it was safest to put his phone down. 

The day vanished in naps, attempts to stay hydrated and occasional text exchanges. His mental clarity improved when he stopped taking the meds, but Ziva’s communication stayed short and grumpy. He knew she was like a wounded lion when she was sick, but occasionally, the urge to prod her just to see how detailed her threats of violence could be simply in text form was too great. 

By evening, he’d moved on from mortician-ready to manageable. He even watched a movie without falling asleep. 

Tony (7.43 pm)

Status update?

Ziva (7.44 pm) 

Alive. Voice is back, sort of. Otherwise okay. You?

Tony (7.47 pm) 

Better enough to be vertical without collapsing. Ordering dinner and going to sleep. You want me to send anything?  

Ziva (7.48pm) 

No, I have frozen cholent to reheat. Check in tomorrow?

Tony (7.50 pm)

Yeah, tomorrow. Feel better, I miss you. 

Ziva (7.51 pm) 

I miss you too xx 

Saturday passed in that strange limbo of not yet better but no longer actively suffering. He was still tired enough to feel like two doors down was too far to walk, but energetic enough to stay awake the whole day and even catch up on his work emails. Tony ordered them lunch. Ziva sent him dinner. He continued his search for the belt, even opening his piano - not that he thought it would be there, but it was the last place he hadn’t checked. 

On Sunday, Tony slept in and missed Ziva’s invitation to go meet for coffee - she had apparently woken up feeling like new. He was still groggy and heavy, but figured the lingering fatigue was more about doing nothing than still being sick. After a shower and airing out his apartment, clearing the last clouds of plague that hung in the bedroom, he felt more human still. He phoned Ziva, and she was at his door half an hour after that. 

She still looked a little pale and tired, and her voice was still scratchy, but so was his; at least they matched. She also came with goodies from the cafe. 

“Fern wasn’t working today,” she explained. “It almost felt like cheating on her.” 

He grinned, taking the bag. “Well, I’m sure we can make it up to her tomorrow morning. Hanson threatened to quit if I leave her in charge another day.” 

Ziva nodded. “I’m back tomorrow, too. Come on, let’s have these before they get cold.” 

They ended up on the couch, facing each other from opposite ends, not quite brave enough to breathe each other’s air, although they were both well on the way to recovery. The conversation wandered, Ziva filling in the blanks about her case, Tony elaborating on the pseudoephedrine-induced hallucinations his fingers had been too clumsy to type. 

He didn’t need to say how good it felt to be back in the same room - he could see the same sentiment written all over her face. 

After a while, she reached into her bag. “Oh, I nearly forgot, you left this at my place.” 

She handed him the belt he’d been searching for all week. 

Tony’s eyes widened. “You’ve gotta be kidding me.” 

“No?” she said. “Why would I? It was on the bathroom counter. You put it there when we showered together.”

“I’ve been looking for it all week,” he confessed. “I was starting to think I was going crazy.” 

A smile crept across her face. “Well, good thing I brought it back. You could have asked, you know.” 

He shrugged, lopping it up and putting it on the coffee table. “I was going to and then you texted about that homicide case... and it was all downhill from there.” He reached for the remains of his pastry. “But you sure know how to make a guy’s Sunday better.” 

Ziva settled back into the corner of the couch with a smile. “Well, I am glad to oblige.” 

Tony chuckled. “You know, this might be the most exciting thing that’s happened to me all week.”

“That is sad,” she said dryly, then paused with a wry smile. “Me too.”

It really hadn’t been much of a week, bureaucratic nightmares, germs, and long cases, but like Fern had promised at the start, things had come good when he’d stopped looking. He’d take that as a win.

Chapter Text

From the catwalk, Tony watched his team do what they were supposed to do - function as a team. They were all good agents, but nine months ago, they had been just as new to the MCRT as he was. Somehow, between rebuilding his own life in DC - including reuniting with Ziva, learning that despite a messy divorce and five years of total silence, they were still very much in love - he’d managed to turn them into a cohesive unit. 

Hanson was, as usual, surrounded by her owls, rattling away on her keyboard with one hand, thumb flying over her phone in the other. The constant multitasking never slowed her down; her work was always done well and usually ahead of time. Even if Tony didn’t like how much time she spent texting her boyfriend... fiance now that upgrade had landed over the weekend - other than a general mutter of “looking unprofessional”, he let it slide. 

When her head turned towards Cooper’s desk, he followed her gaze. Fletcher was there, proofreading the report for their recently closed case. Cooper had rotated his chair slightly, his eyes on the redhead propped on the corner, one leg swinging casually, jabbing with a pen at his screen. She was reading something aloud, or maybe mocking a typo. Either way, he was smiling.

Ziva had pointed out a couple of weeks back that she thought something was going on, purely based on the way he talked about them. But there was nothing inappropriate - no flirting, no lingering tension. Just familiarity. The kind that either came from sleeping together or from never, ever having considered it. He and Ziva had stood like that hundreds of times in the earlier years, and even discounting the fact that yes, they did eventually get together, she used to get in McGee’s space just as often, and that was definitely in the never, ever category. 

Besides, they didn’t even match. Cooper, all looming bulk, was a marshmallow on the inside. Fletcher, the exact opposite; so small it was almost comical, but a firecracker with a short fuse when provoked - she had once declared her life motto to be “Swear without shame. Punch without prejudice.” Coop was patient, gentle and almost goofy, while Fletcher was loud and quick to laugh. It wasn’t a thing. And even if it was, he wasn’t Gibbs. 

He leaned on the railing, enjoying the quiet before they realised he was up there. This balance had taken a while. At first, it felt like herding cats. But now, things were settling, the pranks were less frequent, and had stopped bordering on mean-spirited (right after he’d clocked just how much advantage the girls liked to take of Cooper and started his team rebuilding plans, HR had noticed it too and that had been a very uncomfortable half hour). Now, they just seemed to fit. 

He had a team, a good one, growing tighter by the day. It might have taken the better part of a year, but he’d finally stopped doubting that he’d done the right thing by taking this role. 

The elevator dinged. Tony didn’t pay it much attention at first. People came and went all day, and with the last of their witnesses interviewed, he wasn’t expecting anyone. He only glanced over when he realised Hanson had hurriedly pocketed her phone. 

Ziva. It took him a second to remember. She’d taken a personal day and as well as a massage and haircut - he squinted, it didn’t look that different from up here - she’d mentioned planning to stop in on Abby and Ducky. He caught a glimpse of her ID on her belt - still necessary to clear security easily even on a day off. Apparently, she’d decided to track him down first and lost her required escort in the process. Tony had a fleeting pang of sympathy for whichever Probie she’d shaken off. 

She hadn’t been in the bullpen since the night of the warehouse, and she’d walked slowly, almost on tiptoe then. Now, she moved like she owned it, tracing the well-worn path back to her old desk. 

Hanson met her first, quick to step up as the unofficial team lead in his absence, a handshake, formal but warm. Fletcher peeled herself off Cooper's desk, and they ambled over to say hi, too. Tony could practically see the way Ziva analysed that and filed it for later. He was definitely going to hear about it.

He kept watching as he made his way downstairs. The team had met her only briefly that one time and gleaned the basics then; ex-wife, FBI, anything after that had been strictly between him and Ziva. He couldn’t quite tell if they remembered her, but there was even a ripple of laughter as he descended the last two stairs. 

“I’m here,” he declared as his phone began to buzz in his pocket. “You can hang up, Hanson.” She made a show of hanging up her phone and rolling her eyes. 

Tony started towards Ziva, hand half raised, ready to slide around her waist. At her side, her hand flicked subtly, a quiet reminder - you’re still on duty. He adjusted without thinking, let the motion fall back into his pocket, and kept walking.

“Look what the Bureau coughed up,” he said instead. Her hair was different, he realised now, not dramatically so, just kind of tidier, with some shorter bits around her face. He squashed the instinct to push them off her forehead and tell her they were cute. 

“You all remember Agent David - professional pain in our collective ass.” His team murmured various acknowledgements and drifted back to their desks. “To what do we owe the honour?” 

“I am here to see Ducky and Abby,” she replied as though they hadn’t traded that information while tangled in bedsheets the night before. “I just thought that I would come and say hello for a minute. Those ghosts I noticed last time, you have done a good job exercising them.” 

“Exorcising,” he snorted. 

“That is what I said!” 

He shook his head as his desk phone began to trill. “Never mind, I gotta get that. Fletch, show Agent David down to...” 

“I still know my way around.” Ziva rolled her eyes. “See you.”

He kept one eye on Ziva as she left, half-listening to the litany of issues Irma from accounting had with his latest reimbursement request. Just before she disappeared around the corner, she paused and turned back for a second - a smile and a wink now that his team was occupied again. The sneaky flirt - yeah, they still had it. 

He just hoped they could get to the end of the day without a murder so they could head back to his place (it was Tuesday after all) together.

Tony cooked later that evening, by which he meant taking a packet of ground beef, the remains of his veggie crisper, adding liberal amounts of cumin and declaring it “rustic Moroccan.” 

Ziva had taken one bite, raised an eyebrow and said, “Moroccan-adjacent.” 

But, it was good, and he hadn’t burned the rice. 

Now, he lounged, sated and vaguely proud of himself at one end of the couch, Ziva at the other, their feet tangled in the middle - the maximum amount of body contact acceptable considering the sticky July weather - while they both churned through work emails. It was late enough that neither of them was still able to be productive, but their devices were open, the pretence still intact.

It was quiet and calm, which was probably why the words caught him off guard when she spoke.

“Your team does not know,” Ziva said suddenly. 

Tony glanced over his laptop, puzzled. “Know what?” 

“About us,” she clarified. “I could tell when I introduced myself to Hanson that she hadn’t heard of me since that case.” 

“Oh, yeah.” Tony leaned his head back against the cushion, thinking it over. “I guess not. But not like you’ve told Martinez and Symons anything... or that new guy... Tyler?” 

Ziva nodded. “Taylor. But yes, I have. A version of it, anyway.” 

“Really?” 

“Mm-hmm,” she hummed. “Just the basics. I am dating the man I happened to be married to before. Nothing more. But it is something I learned, partly from how closed off Gibbs could be. I find it helps them trust me more, to know that I am not entirely made of stone.” 

“Huh, right,” he said, closing his laptop and putting it on the floor. “I didn’t mean not to. I’m the boss, not supposed to be using them as my personal therapists. But Hanson does enough talking about her fiancé to meet the romantic stories criteria for any team anyway.” 

“Not to mention, Fletcher and Cooper. If they have not yet, they will soon,” Ziva said with a knowing smirk and set her laptop on the table and reached for their beers instead. 

“That’s not a thing!” he insisted. 

“It will be, you’ll see.” Ziva shook her head with a smirk. “But then you introduced me as a professional pain in your ass,” she added, a little quieter, sipping her drink. 

Tony winced, taking the drink she held out to him. “Yeah, that sounded pretty bad, huh?” 

“It was not the nicest thing you have said about me... nor the worst. It just felt strange for a moment. I am not upset. I just expected that you would have told them, considering how much I know about them already.” 

“I figured you didn’t want it announced,” he admitted. “You gave me that little hand thing - like, back off.”

Ziva tilted her head, crinkling her brow. “That was because I had surprised you at work in front of your team. I did not want you to think you had to be affectionate if you did not want to. I wouldn’t want to if you had come to my office, either,” she paused for a moment. “Sorry if that was not clear.” 

Tony scratched his head, sheepishly. “Yeah, I totally misread that one. But I didn’t mean for it to seem like a secret. It was just... sorting out our shit at first. That was between us. Then there was that whole not talking again phase - and other than accidentally going postal at McGee, I wasn’t telling anyone about any of that. And since then,” he shrugged, “it’s just kind of a habit now. It wasn’t something I decided not to say.” 

“I understand.” Her foot nudged his ankle gently, quiet and understanding. 

“But I’m sorry it sounded like I was trying to hide it or something. It’s just really never come up, you know?” He glanced down at their feet and then back up. “I’ll tell them tomorrow if it matters to you.” 

Ziva smiled, shaking her head. “You may tell them whenever you like - but I’m fine. Like I said, I was just surprised.” Then added with a dry smile, “Besides, I have forgiven you for worse already.”

“Worse?” he repeated. 

She met his eyes, steady and soft. “Most of 2010. I think we can survive one little misunderstanding now.”

For a moment, neither of them spoke. They’d talked it all out, dozens of times, made apologies and reached understandings, and freely owned their failures. Somehow, forgiveness hadn’t actually come into the conversation by name till now. It hadn’t really mattered either; the sentiment had lived between them, unspoken and comfortable. 

He stretched a little, his foot sliding up her calf, bare beneath shorts she wouldn’t dream of wearing during office hours. “Yeah,” he agreed. Even if it wasn’t something that needed to be announced, now that it was out there, he felt like he should return the favour. “I forgave you a long time ago, too.”

“I know you did,” she answered quietly, a little smug. That was all they needed, really, now. She drained the beer, and put it on the table. “So, is there dessert before I go home?” 

Tony grinned quickly. “Which kind?” 

“The food kind, it is far too humid for anything else,” she replied deadpan, her eyes narrow. It really was, even he couldn’t argue with that.

“You’re in luck.” He nodded toward the kitchen. “Gelato from the gas station. Rustic Italian and everything.” 

Ziva smiled, getting up, ready to raid his freezer. “I think you mean Italian-adjacent.” 

Chapter Text

Technically, it was a cabin. It had a porch with a swing and was close enough to the middle of nowhere that it felt secluded, but still close enough for pizza delivery from the nearest town. There was a wood pile for the fireplace - not that anyone sane would use it in mid-July - and a lake within walking distance. There was also WiFi, sheets with a thread count only marginally greater than the price Tony had paid for the place, flyscreens on all the windows, and most important of all - air conditioning. It wasn’t quite the call of the wild, but it was enough wilderness to set Ziva at ease, and still with enough creature comforts that he would enjoy himself. 

Nothing in particular had spurred this, just something in the summer wind and watching his colleagues take leave and drift back, sunkissed and breezy (or in Fletcher’s case: scarlet and regretful) had made his feet itch. Inspired, he spent lunch online and found a last-minute cancellation for a 4-day weekend. Under the shower that evening, he told Ziva to clear her calendar and with plans explained and gratitude demonstrated, he walked her home with wet hair and a grin that almost hurt. 

On Thursday, he told his team he’d be away, put Hanson in charge and instructed them not to burn the place down. Cooper asked what he had planned, and (as casually as if they’d known all along) he said, “Ziva and I are taking a weekend in wine country.” He left before the surprise wore off and the questions began. 

He stayed at Ziva’s and they left early, trying to beat the worst of the heat. They stopped for coffee en route (Fern was AWOL, but the server mentioned she was working on her tan south of the border) and headed out of DC. 

Tony drove, while Ziva fed him bites of bagel (she’d said pastry was too crumbly to eat in her car), and they bickered comfortably over music choices. They took turns singing. She laughed when he mimicked Elvis, he grinned when she sang to Fleetwood Mac, translating to Hebrew on the fly and they dueted Sinatra. Ziva put the roof down and let her curls go. Sometimes, they were silent, their fingers laced in the middle. They both remembered how they used to drive like this in the beginning, although no journey had ever felt so promising as this one.

They stopped at an artisanal produce place that promised homemade jams and pickles and farm tours. It defeated the purpose of avoiding the midday sun, but Ziva threatened bodily harm if it didn’t happen. Tony watched while she tasted every sample on offer and then spent what he considered an absurd amount of money on jars of relish and bottles of vinegar. 

“Taste this,” she fed him a smear of quince paste on a tiny wooden spoon. The rotund older woman making the sales chuckled and murmured something about “young love.” 

Tony chewed, swallowed and squinted at the label. “You realise that stuff is like, six bucks a mouthful? I’ve had cheaper caviar.” 

Ziva shrugged, entirely unbothered and added one to the already considerable stack on the counter. “But it is also delicious.” 

“True.” He couldn’t fault her on that. 

Ziva hummed, pleased, selecting a hefty loaf of sourdough. “I have excellent taste,” she informed him smugly. “And one each of the cheeses,” she added, pointing to the chilled cabinet. 

“And zero restraint,” he added. 

Ziva turned her back, laughing. “I am on vacation.” 

Tony reached for a wafer with a dollop of something that looked like it had mustard seeds in it. “So am I, apparently, with a girlfriend who equates holidaying with bankrupting herself on condiments.” 

“For that,” she said, handing over her card and paying a triple-digit figure without flinching, “You do not get any more quince paste.” 

Tony took the hint and toted her haul out to the car without further comment.

They reached the cabin mid-afternoon and unpacked at a rate that fell somewhere between leisurely and unhurried. Tony sprawled out on the bed for a few minutes, declaring it “like a cloud” while Ziva inspected the space more thoroughly, teasing him about being reliant on technology when she found the WiFi password printed on cardstock usually reserved for wedding invitations, but approved of the massage jets in the bathtub that was big enough for them both. 

After that, they gave in to the heat, digging out bathing suits and wandering down towards the lake. Ziva paused only long enough to read that diving was safe, then sprinted the length of the dock and into the water in a single clean arc that was almost too fast for him to appreciate her form. He went in from the shoreline, sucking in a breath as the chill lapped around his shins. 

Ziva resurfaced. “That is why you go in all at once!” she called. He waded out further till he was level with her, about chest deep. 

“It’s better to acclimatise,” he rebutted, voice still tight at the temperature difference. 

Ziva smirked and ducked back under, catching his ankle. She couldn’t unbalance him with only one hand, his stance wide against the gentle swell of the water, but he let go anyway, going under, trying to grab her back. Fully immersed, the water was refreshing, cool rather than chilly, and warmer when they both swam out to the middle, where the sun hit instead of the shallows, shaded by the enormous sycamores along the bank. 

After a couple of losing races (although he maintained that she cheated) and a long, weightless kiss, letting the water provide the buoyancy, Tony flipped onto his back and floated while Ziva - literally - swam laps around him until the sun dipped behind the trees, bringing a drop in temperature that even she couldn’t deny. 

Dinner happened on the porch swing. They’d meant to go into town for a sit-down meal, but when Ziva emerged from the shower wearing one of his shirts and apparently little else, Tony felt that staying in was the better choice. 

Instead, they watched the last of the sunset, grazing on Ziva’s shopping haul in the porch swing. Whatever complaints Tony had about the price tag faded at the first bite of cheese. They tried every possible combination of flavours, trading bites and kisses and laughter, sipping wine from coffee mugs (for all the luxuries, somehow there were no wine glasses), her bare legs stretched across his lap. 

“We never did this,” Ziva said at one point, softly, her head against the back of the swing.

“Vacation?” he asked. He knew it was pointless to bring up Paris and the other work-funded ventures. They’d lived like they were on holiday, sure, but almost without ever leaving DC. 

She nodded. “Or just... took time. Time that was not stolen from something else, anyway.”

Tony traced patterns on her knee with one finger. He looked out across the still trees, the last of the golden light casting long shadows on the rocky ground below them. “And now?”

“Now,” she said, leaning forward to take his glass and replace it with a kiss instead, “we just get to be.”

Saturday vanished in busyness. Ziva’s idea of a vacation meant discovering the local area; a sunrise walk around the lake, a farmer’s market two towns over, more farm gate produce, wine tastings and a hike that she swore was “beginner level” and left Tony feeling like he’d climbed Everest - even a long soak in the spa bath did little to ease his regret. 

He had no idea how so much activity could qualify as relaxing, but watching her smile, even as they covered more miles in exploration than they had in the commute to get here in the first place, made it worthwhile. 

He slept like the dead that night, sweaty, achy and thoroughly spent - somehow Ziva still had energy after the long day to express her appreciation physically. It was late when he stirred, the sun beginning to reach the windows. 

Ziva was already awake, curled onto her side, a book open between them, basking in the rays of light that fell across her side of the mattress. Her smile was slow and unguarded, and her fingers found his jaw like they belonged there.

"Good morning," she murmured.

“Is it?” he rasped, voice rough with sleep. “Am I dead? Did the hike kill me?”

Her lips quirked. “You are not dead.”

“Then I need proof of life,” he said, shifting closer, finding her hip beneath the sheets. 

She obliged. They stayed in. 

Sunday was as lazy and delicious and slow-moving as Saturday had been fast-paced. They made coffee (the espresso machine was another point of humour for Ziva, but her tune had changed) and drank it on the porch. Tony sat on the swing in his robe, admiring Ziva, wearing nothing but the top sheet, sitting on the porch steps, her hair twisted up and speared through with a pen, looking like some kind of Grecian sculpture. 

They lounged and napped at will and finished the cheese for breakfast. Tony found a battered detective noir novel on the shelf and read it aloud, complete with his best Bogart impression. Ziva pretended not to be listening - apparently too absorbed in rubbing market-bought lotion with goat milk and organic honey into her legs and then doing a crossword - but she still managed to call out plot holes and predict the twist before he reached it.

Still, she seemed to like it. When Detective Rick Malone got the girl, Tony did too. 

Lunch was forgotten, satisfied instead with long kisses that didn’t have to go anywhere because they had all the time in the world, and a punnet of cherries purchased the day before. Everything had a soft, almost dreamy edge to it, comfortable and almost overfull with peace and happiness. 

If Saturday had been Ziva’s idea of the perfect holiday, then this was his. 

In some ways, it reminded Tony of the early weeks of their marriage. When the honeymoon phase was in full flight and they were completely wrapped up in each other, without worrying about the next case or when the phone would ring. But back then, there’d been an almost desperate edge to the same stillness - the unspoken fear that everything they’d survived but hadn’t yet healed from would crash through the walls they’d built. 

It felt different now. They were still escaping, but now it was to create time for themselves rather than as a defence mechanism. A choice they made with the knowledge they would go back to reality. That, when this breathless hush lifted and the world started again, they’d do just fine. Not running away, more like a pause to appreciate what they had.

Ziva drove home on Monday, the roof still down and one hand on his knee. They were quiet for the most part, a little tired, a little sunburnt, but deeply content. Tony didn’t need to say it aloud; he knew she was thinking the same thing. 

They’d never had anything like this before, and finally having it felt better than they imagined. 

Chapter Text

Coming back to the real world had been easy; the first couple of days had dragged on, missing the leisure time and freedom to do as he chose, but within a week, Tony had found his groove again. 

This included semi-frequent breakfast dates with Ziva at the cafe, from which Fern was conspicuously absent. Including the time before they’d taken their break, it was pushing three weeks since he’d seen her - no way could a college student's income stretch that far on vacation. He’d almost stopped looking for her now, but the rest of the staff knew the routine anyway - the first one of them to arrive paid, but no one made the drinks until the second person arrived, delivering them hot to the table. He did, however, snag a muffin on the spot to tide him over till Ziva got there. 

He sniggered to himself, realising he actually missed Fern’s weird quirks and pearls of wisdom, and the just beyond professional, but not quite intrusive level of interest in their relationship that had formed at the table where he now sat. Now that summer was fading and everything was beginning to settle back into routine, he hoped she’d reappear, too. 

He looked up the moment Ziva appeared in the doorway, never knowing exactly what had clued him in, but always knowing exactly when she arrived. She lingered near the counter long enough to make eye contact with the worker there - confirming their order would get started - and then made her way towards him, pushing her sunglasses up on her head. 

“You got impatient,” she said reprovingly, bending to kiss him and pulling off a chunk of the remaining muffin as she did. 

“Well, you’re late,” he pointed out, not actually annoyed. “How was it?” Ziva had left his place early the night before, a conference call between various legal attache offices in different countries that began at an hour he preferred not to think about to allow for the time difference. Based on when she woke up, this was closer to lunch.

The look on her face was enough, he pushed the plate with the muffin across the table as compensation. 

“Loud,” she sighed around a mouthful of blueberry. “Unproductive. It was mostly people talking over each other and saying the same things in different accents. And if you dare remind me what the B in FBI stands for again...” 

Tony laughed and held his hands up innocently. “Who me?” 

Ziva gave him a hard stare for a second, her expression telling him she knew exactly what he’d been thinking. She turned her head hopefully as the order-up bell rang at the counter, checking if their drinks were ready.

“No Fern?” she asked. 

“Yeah, I dunno.” Tony shrugged. “Figured she’d be back by now.” 

“Me too.” She tossed the last bite of muffin into her mouth. “It seems quiet without her.” 

He snickered. “It does. But I think we’re doing okay even without her strange flavour of morning guidance these days.” 

Ziva smirked and reached across the tablet, hand landing on his wrist softly, a silent yes, we are. 

“Rude!” Declared a familiar voice from above them. “Three weeks away is all it takes for you to start coping without me?” 

Tony jumped a little, glancing up to find the pierced waitress he’d grown inexplicably fond of holding their order on a tray. 

“Where were you hiding?” he asked. 

Looking closer, most of her skin was still shiny pink, he recognised the hallmarks of newly healed sunburn at once. Her hair looked shaggy and sunbleached, too, and he was fairly certain at least one of the hoops hanging from her ear hadn’t been there before. She also had an ear-to-ear grin. 

“We were starting to wonder if you’d just decided to stay down there.” 

“The milk delivery arrived,” she said, setting their drinks down between them. “I had to unpack. But also, turns out that flaking sunburn is a health code violation, at least according to my manager. I had to take an extra week off till I stopped threatening to shed into people’s lattes. Thank god for my scholarship or I’d have starved without the dorm dining hall.”

She paused and fixed him with a glare, her eyeliner a bright aqua this time, narrowing with her eyes. “But seriously? Less than a month, and you’re dragging my name? How could you?”

“It was a compliment, really,” he said, already fishing in his pocket for a tip. Either she really, really needed the extra money, or she was playing him just that well. He figured it didn’t matter; her appearance had already brightened his day enough to be worth it. 

“I had just said it seemed quiet without you,” Ziva added warmly, adding an offering to the ‘Feed Fern Fund.’ “Welcome back, how was Mexico?” 

She smiled gratefully, pocketing the money. “Oh! It was uh-mazing. As promised, you bought our first drinks, Tony, and it set the tone for the whole holiday. There are at least two days I can’t remember at all. But between margaritas, I got totally sunburned on day one, swam in water that looked like it was a postcard, and walked so far in one day I got eight blisters!” Fern shifted, her weight settling on the back of an empty chair behind her, ready to talk as long as she could get away with it and kept chatting while they ate. “Then there was the dancing, the bonfires, the food and a really gorgeous guy named Santi. He couldn’t play guitar for nuts, but he only stole two things, so that’s a net win.” 

“Two?” Ziva enquired doubtfully. 

“My towel and my heart... although I definitely didn’t put up a fight about either one.” Fern grinned. 

Ziva raised an eyebrow. “Well, you seem to have returned in one piece.” 

“Barely, but that’s the point of any journey.” That slightly vague, dreamy expression came over her face again. “You’re supposed to lose a few things on the way. Towels, inhibitions, some skin... but also the things that were holding you back. Like an emotional exfoliation as well as a physical one.” 

Tony paused his stirring, mid-way through adding sugar to his coffee. “And those answers could be provided by a guy named Santi?” he asked, amused. 

“Oh no, he was just for fun.” Fern shrugged and tucked her tray under one arm. “But the dawn hike to Chichen Itza and watching the sunrise... now that was life changing, blisters and all” she sighed. “And I even got to practise my Spanish while I was there, I haven’t used it since high school... and it made Santi laugh, anyway you want to hear?” 

Ziva set her cup down, looking interested. “¿Hablas español?” she asked with a smirk that Tony recognised. He abandoned the bear claw to see how this would play out. 

“Sí, un poco,” Fern replied. Ziva nodded encouragingly. "Gracias por la paciencia y... escucharon mis cuadernos... I mean... ¡mis cuentos!” she added, a little more haltingly. 

Tony smirked into his coffee. She’d just thanked them for listening to her notebooks. 

Ziva didn’t miss a beat. “De nada. Espero que hayas disfrutado de cada momento de tu viaje, incluso los que se quemaron un poco.” She motioned to Fern's shoulders, still glowing under the straps of her tank top. “Ojalá no se te haya roto el corazón cuando te despediste de Santi.”

Fern started blankly for a second. “You’re fluent?” 

“Sí, lo soy.” Ziva replied, smirking.

Fern groaned and buried her face in her hands. “Oh my god,” she moaned. “How bad did you just make fun of me?” she asked cautiously, peering over her fingers at Ziva. Tony looked too, that dimple was still dancing next to her lips, considering how long to keep teasing. 

“Se amable, querida,” he murmured, grinning. “She said she hoped you enjoyed your trip, even if you got sunburnt and that your heart didn’t break when you said goodbye to Santi,” he explained. 

“You too?” Fern exclaimed. 

Tony shrugged with one shoulder, still smirking at her shock. “Yup, nice try though.” 

Fern groaned again, but this time with a laugh. “You guys suck,” she muttered, recovering quickly. She glanced around the cafe, it was still quiet, and turned back to them. “You could have warned me.” 

“Where’s the fun in that?” he chuckled, sipping his coffee again. 

“You did well,” Ziva put in, still smiling. “Very confident, and confidence is definitely something you should bring back from a journey.” 

Fern shrugged good-naturedly. “I’ll take that,” she conceded. “But speaking of things I brought back, I got you something, too!” 

That made Tony pause, his coffee halfway to his mouth. “You what?” 

“It’s nothing major,” she assured, rummaging in her apron pocket. “And not too weird, I promise. The tour bus had to stop at a gas station about 50 miles from nowhere because this one group didn’t get the memo about drinking bottled water, and they all needed a restroom and Imodium like yesterday... anyway, I went in and there it was. Ta-da!” 

She unfurled her fingers with a flourish, a small fridge magnet rested on her palm. It had a pale background, a fragment of a map - nowhere in particular - and a large red pin landing dead centre. 

“You are here?” he read the bold text aloud. It looked like one of those billboard maps at a theme park or a mall. 

“Right?” Fern beamed at them both. “It’s cheesy, but kind of perfect.” 

Ziva reached, picking it up. “Thank you,” she said softly. “Why this?” 

Fern grabbed the empty chair she’d been leaning on and sat down, straddling it backwards, then beckoned them in conspiratorially. Tony had to smother a laugh at the antics, but it was clear she was totally earnest. 

“So, the thing with life is your internal compass can get all screwed up. Work, friends, love. Feels like that needle is just free wheeling, going round and round, pointing nowhere and everywhere. You don’t even know what road you’re on sometimes, right?” 

Ziva glanced at Tony, quietly amused. She laid the magnet on the table between them. 

“Sure,” he mumbled, playing along. 

“So this is to remind you that you are here. To stop spinning sometimes. Give yourselves a minute to breathe. Because you are here. Together. Maybe, not where you thought you’d end up, but you’re here,” she paused, tapping the magnet. “The whole journey matters, the hard parts, the detours, the destination. I could see you were going through it for a while, and obviously you worked out where you’re both headed. But sometimes, you forget to stop and look at the scenery right where you are. There’s a lot to appreciate right now, too. You are here. Make the most of it.” 

“Wow,” Tony murmured. He had to give it to her. She’d nailed them. “Okay, that is actually kind of perfect.” 

Fern stood, tucking her plait behind her ear. “Hey, I’m a psych major. It’s my jam.” 

Tony laughed, swigging the last of his coffee and set his cup down. “Yeah, speaking of... if you end up getting published in any journals, I expect royalties,” he said. “You know, as your first lab rats.” 

Fern laughed, clearing the used dishes off the table next to them as she spoke. “And if you two end up getting a goldfish, or a cat or being responsible for some other life form, I expect them to be named in my honour!” She turned to go, then paused, glancing back at them with a grin. “Hey, just so I know for my paper - how long have you two actually been a thing?”

Tony raised an eyebrow. “You mean this time?” he asked casually. 

Ziva snorted and hid a smile in her cup.

Fern blinked. “Wait. This time?”

He nodded, grinning. “Oh yeah, this is Tony and Ziva take two. We were married in 2010, screwed that up and got divorced a year later. I ran away to Naples, or in words you’d understand, I took a soul-searching sabbatical... for five years... while I still worked...” he trailed off, the metaphor getting away from him. 

“We reconnected last October, and we have been dating since February," Ziva supplied. 

A scandalised expression formed on Fern’s face, pierced eyebrow rising to meet her hairline. “I’ve been rooting for a sequel this whole time?” she demanded. 

Tony shrugged, laughing. “Nah, this is more like the main feature, the other was just a prequel. But plot twists are our specialty. Wait till you learn that the first time we kissed was actually in 2005! ” 

“Never mind a college paper, you two could be an entire doctoral thesis!” Fern laughed. Her name was called from behind the front of the store. “Oop, gotta run. Anyway, remember - you are here. And you’d better be here tomorrow, too, because now I have a million more questions.” She scooped up his empty cup and made a dash for the counter. 

Tony watched her go, shaking his head. “I dunno how she has that much energy before midday.” 

“She is twenty,” Ziva said. “She lives on caffeine and self-discovery, I suppose.” 

He laughed and leaned back in his chair. “You know, I’ve never actually seen her drink anything from here. But while we’re on the subject, do you have time for a second? Make up some of that together time we missed when you ducked out early yesterday?” He picked up her hand, brushing a kiss to her knuckles, a hint he wasn’t really complaining. 

“I had to work!” she reminded him. “But yes, that would be -” she paused, frowning as her phone buzzed. He waited while she opened it, already knowing from her expression what came next. “Sorry, I need to go,” she sighed. 

“Another conference call?” he asked, pulling a napkin out of the dispenser and wrapping it around the remains of her croissant, as she stood, shouldering her bag. 

“No. Something else. But I have to leave right now.” She took the pastry from his hand, already turning for the exit. “Sorry. I love you.” 

He tugged her back quickly, landing a kiss before she disappeared into work mode entirely. “You too, go kick ass.” 

And just like that, she was out the door. 

Tony tossed the last bite of bear claw into his mouth and realised the magnet was still sitting on the table.

You Are Here. 

Maybe it hadn’t been the quiet breakfast date he and Ziva had planned on - but it had turned into something else. A little unexpected. A lot funny. But still theirs.

Well, scenery appreciated. He chuckled under his breath and slipped the magnet into his pocket.

Chapter Text

Tony didn’t hear from Ziva all day. Standard fare, the look on her face when she’d left the cafe had said everything her words hadn’t. Work had been busy enough for him with a scheduled fire drill and evacuation practice - including Cooper demonstrating (against Tony’s will) that he could lift Tony in a perfect fireman’s hold - without worrying too much anyway. He sent her a brief check in message after dinner, stuck Fern’s magnet on his fridge and put himself to bed, knowing she’d be in touch when she could. 

Later, although he couldn’t have said how long, he was awake before he knew why. He blinked sleepily at his clock - 2.17 am - and wondered what he’d heard. His phone was silent, blank. Still no word from Ziva, but something had disturbed him. 

When the sound repeated, he reacted before he’d processed what it was. He was halfway to the front door, dragging on his robe, before he understood - knocking. The hour alone ruled out almost anyone else; it had to be her. 

She said nothing when he opened the door, but even in the dim lighting, he knew something was off. 

He stepped back, letting her in, heading for a lamp. Instinct warned him the overhead light would have been too much. As it flickered on, he saw her properly - they weren’t her clothes, or at least not her field gear. A hoodie, zipped up halfway, the right sleeve was pushed up, revealing a long scrape on her forearm. Underneath, the FBI issue t-shirt was rumpled. There was blood down the side of her neck, streaky and dried, some attempt had been made to clean it off, but no visible wound. He wondered for a moment if it was even hers. Her hair was tied back, but half-heartedly, curls escaped at various angles, some frizzy, some matted. A puffy bruise was forming on her right cheekbone. Sweats and sneakers, suspiciously clean for how the rest of her looked, completed the effect. 

She hadn’t just been at the scene, she’d been in it. Whatever she’d been wearing that morning had been unsalvageable, or worse, was already folded into an evidence bag for their forensic scientists - all of Abby’s smarts, none of her pizazz - to analyse. 

He already knew what happened, the expression on her face said it all. They’d all worn that look before. Kate, Jenny, Mike. The emergency room, the night she lost... 

“Who?” he murmured, forcing himself back to the present. 

Her face screwed up for a second. Pain? Regret? “Taylor.” 

He winced too, it was the new recruit she’d been talking about recently. The one whose name he always got wrong, calling him Tyler. Loads of promise, more bravery and wisdom than seemed reasonable for such a young kid, but still very green. She hadn’t said as much, but he knew she’d seen glimmers of her younger self in him. 

She flinched suddenly, tugging at the hem of her sweatshirt. “I need a shower.” 

“Okay,” he agreed softly, starting towards the bathroom. “Come on.” 

“No.” 

He turned again, she still stood where she’d stopped, just over the threshold. Her hand still clenched around her clothes, looking down at them, almost like she was wondering how they ended up on her. 

She glanced up, around the apartment that had once been hers too, her expression suddenly wary and lost. “I need to go home.” 

He nodded quietly. “Give me two minutes.” She didn’t move while he threw on clothes, grabbed his keys and his phone.

They walked in silence, Tony a half pace behind, feeling more like a bodyguard than her partner right now. The last time she’d looked this brittle, there’d been nothing he’d done right. Too far away, too close, too loud, too quiet, too involved, too distant. Of course, he’d been drowning in his own emotions then too, but he remembered how much she’d hated the way he’d tried to fix things, recoling as he’d filled the space with nervous energy, jokes she hadn’t laughed at and cups of tea she hadn’t touched. Everything he’d tried seemed to push her away, until he began doing it deliberately. 

This time, he stayed quiet, not rushing her or invading her space. Close enough that she knew he was there, but without filling the gaps with words she hadn’t asked for. When her hand fumbled with the keys, he waited, rather than stepping in to help. When you were at the bottom, small victories meant a lot; even if it took three tries, she could have this one. 

Ziva didn’t invite him in, just left the door open in her wake. She moved on autopilot, kicking off her sneakers, turning on a light, then stood blankly in the middle of her living room. 

He shut the door quietly, took off his shoes and waited. He remembered getting home that night several years ago. Not this apartment, but his, just two doors down. The way the silence had suffocated, neither of them knowing what to say or how to say it. Her posture, fragile but upright at the same time, her jaw locked, eyes wide and dry, but far from fine. The way his hand had landed on her shoulder, but hadn’t reached her at all. When he’d tried harder, she’d shut down entirely, showered and gone to bed in silence. 

He approached slowly. Every part of him wanted to do something, anything to take pain out of her eyes, but experience reminded him not yet. She needed to handle this on her timeline, not his. 

It wasn’t the same, no shared grief, no loss that hit them both. This was Ziva’s moment. Still, she’d come to his door when she could have gone home alone. She’d asked for him, or at least not told him to leave. This was different, he just wasn't sure what to do with it yet. 

Ziva stayed planted in the middle of the room. Tony took the time to look her over a little more thoroughly. She hadn’t been limping, she didn’t seem to be favouring or protecting any more significant injuries, so the physical damage at least was surface level. Her breathing was even, and even though she looked as though she didn’t know where she was, or how she fit in this space, there was a lucidity in her eyes. Whatever had happened was still replaying in her mind - she wasn’t in shock, just shocked. 

He breathed out a little. She was safe. Nothing immediate in terms of first aid seemed necessary - he wanted to dress the scrape on her arm and ice her cheekbone, but those could wait in favour of easing her mind. 

“What do you need?” he asked, softly, the thing he’d never asked before. 

Even if he knew what it felt like - a fallen agent was something everyone understood, no matter what acronym was on their vest - he couldn’t assume. 

Ziva exhaled, shallow but steady, and met his eyes for the first time since she’d shown up at his door. 

“I need this off.” She tugged at the hoodie again. When she picked at the neckline of the t-shirt, he understood, it was clean to the eye, but was stuck to her skin with dried sweat...? blood...?  underneath. 

He nodded. “You got it. You want me to make you tea while you wash?” 

She paused for a second, stilling her hands. “No. I need you to make it happen. Your lead.” 

He halted for a second, cautious. Ziva never gave up control - especially physical - that easily. He looked her over once more, meeting her eyes, checking. She nodded, present, but exhausted. This wasn’t her collapsing, just handing over for a while. Leaning on him, because right now, he had more to give than she had. It wasn’t a do-over of last time, but a chance to grow, to cement all the things they’d been working towards the last five and a half months. To prove that he could be there in the capacity that she needed. For her to reach out, knowing that he would soften the blow instead of leaving her to fall. To learn, together, that they could sit in the wake of something tragic and make it to the other side. Unspoken trust that this time, he'd get it right. 

“Okay,” he said gently. “I got you, Ninja.” 

It wasn’t about fixing anything, he already knew that. It was about making the next half hour suck a bit less. That, he could do. 

Chapter Text

They moved to the bathroom, her hand in his, not holding, just letting him lead the way. 

She waited, silently, while he turned on the light and turned the shower on, adjusted the temperature - hot enough to wash away the day, not so hot to burn however many injuries he had yet to notice - and turned back to her. She’d kicked off her sneakers, but seemed to have run out of steam after that, inspecting her face in the mirror and running a finger along the bruise on her cheekbone. 

“You okay if I do it?” he asked softly. 

Ziva nodded, mute. He unzipped the hoodie and pulled her arms out, stretching the cuff carefully over her sore arm. She stayed still through the rest of the process, lifting her arms or feet when it helped, but not participating otherwise. Just enough presence so he knew she hadn’t checked out entirely, but as little movement as possible, reserving what was left of her energy. 

He tried not to flinch at the amount of blood - still no visible source so apparently not hers - that was smeared across her shoulder and down her torso and she pretended not to notice when he did anyway. Questions could come later, the most important part right now was getting her to feel like her body was her own again. 

They turned towards the running water at the same time. “Can you manage the shower?” he asked. 

Her head bowed, and she gave a slow shake. “Would you come in with me?” 

He nodded. “You got it.” He stripped unceremoniously and stepped in, offering both his hands to draw her under the water too. She shuddered a little when the spray hit her skin. 

“Too hot, too cold?” he checked in, reaching for the taps. 

“No... would you?” She pointed at the washcloth. 

“Anything you need,” he said quickly. 

Tony started at the top, gentle and methodical. He sponged off her face, careful around the mark on her cheek. He skipped using soap, figuring it would sting, rinsing the cloth out often, stopping only when the water ran clear. 

She flinched when he scrubbed her shoulder a little harder to loosen up the long streaks of blood. He could see she’d tried to wipe some of it off; the smears were patchy, thin and tacky in some places, caked and clotty in others. But even still, there was more than enough to tell whatever had happened to Taylor, she’d been right there when it had. 

He pulled back when her jaw tightened, a refusal to let him see her response. “Sorry. Does it hurt?” 

Ziva turned her face away from where he was working. “Not my skin,” she murmured. 

Right, enough said. He continued, down her arms, avoiding the long, raw line he’d noticed first. He took each hand individually - to hold her for a moment as much as anything - some of her nails were chipped and ragged, and there was dry blood underneath them and in the cuticles. No serious marks there, although that bruise on her ribs had to hurt. He gathered she’d fallen, everything injury he’d catalogued so far, chipped nails, bruises, scrapes, seemed to be on her right. 

She hissed a little when he gently passed the cloth over her ribs. 

“Broken?” he asked softly, easing up. 

Her hand moved for a second, cradling the injury. “No. X-ray was clear.” 

He nodded, relieved that she’d been checked out by someone with more medical knowledge than he held. “Okay, can I keep going?” He softened the pressure a little more and waited till she nodded, then knelt to work his way down her hips and legs. 

There was more dried blood caked in her navel, and a long stripe of what looked like gravel rash on her calf, the same side as the ribs, definitely a fall, he decided. Her feet at least looked unscathed - combat boots were good like that. 

Tony stood, wringing out the cloth and hanging it on the tap. “Want me to do your hair?

Ziva hummed affirmatively and turned her back. 

He lathered up, tracing her head for any areas that seemed tender. Once he was certain that was safe, he increased to the firmer scalp massage he knew she liked best. Long drags of his fingers, from front to back, slow circles over her ears and sweeping his thumbs along the base of her skull. She didn’t make a sound, but she didn’t pull away either. 

The shampoo foamed grey in some places, gritty beneath his fingers. Lower down, it became reddish-brown, sticky and matted. Tony kept working, combing it out with his fingers and scrubbing the worst parts between his palms until the strands became soft and separate. He rinsed, momentarily wishing they were in his shower, the flexible hose would have made this easier, but he kept going till the water ran clear. It took three cycles - lather rinse repeat - before he was confident he’d gotten it all. 

He smoothed the conditioner through as well, right out to the ends. He knew the steps, had watched her do it a hundred times, done it for her just two nights earlier. 

While it soaked in, he moved his hands to her shoulders, working his thumbs in slow circles, nothing deep, just light and warm, more about the comfort of touch than pain relief. Ziva didn’t relax, she was holding herself together too tightly, so he stopped the massage and rinsed out her hair one last time. 

“Hey,” he said softly, putting his hand on her shoulder. “Ready to get out?”

She didn’t answer, but turned to face him again, still present, but just so done. Her head folded onto his collarbone, and the rest of her followed a second later. It wasn’t a total collapse - just an exhale and surrender into everything she was feeling. He caught her easily, adjusting his stance slightly and wrapping his arms around her softly. Her breathing hitched against his chest. Not a loud sob, just letting go. A slow, inevitable overflow that had to release eventually, one that last time, she hadn’t let him see. 

She cried silently for what seemed like a long time, her tears against his neck mixing with the water that still fell on them both. Tony understood, the blood and dust had just been the start; this was the part that really needed to be washed down the drain. Not just the outer layer he could see, but everything she’d kept bottled up afterwards, through scene investigations, paperwork, interviews, and worst of all, breaking the news to Taylor’s family. 

Any other night, this would have been the foreplay or afterglow for something far sexier. They showered together often, sleepy and tangled or playful and distracted, soaping each other, trading kisses and playing tic tac toe in the fogged-up glass. This was nothing like that at all. 

He couldn’t help but wonder if this exact thing might have made all the difference the first time. If he’d known how to do this back then. Not the shower, just the quiet presence, the support, following her lead. But she hadn’t wanted him at the time, either. He supposed it didn’t really make a difference anymore, the midnight ER visit was six years ago at this point. What mattered was that he was here, doing it now when she needed it all over again. 

So he stood there, one hand on her head, the other splayed across the small of her back and let her cry herself out. There was nothing he could possibly say, so he didn’t. He’d learned the hard way about trying to fix the unfixable. 

She didn’t stop all at once, just faded in slow waves until she was calm again. Her body stayed pressed to his for a long while, until the water began to cool. When she finally shifted back, her eyes were red, but she already looked far less shattered than when she’d arrived on his doorstep. She nodded, a wordless signal that she was ready.

Tony killed the water and stepped out, opening a towel for her. She let him wrap it around her, but took over after that. He towelled off too, keeping one eye on her as he did. She was slower, but more capable than earlier, wringing the water out of her hair over the sink and rubbing herself down. 

He tossed his t-shirt and boxers back on, then went and raided her pyjama drawer, finding her softest, most comfortable pair - the ones that meant “you’re only sleeping with me literally tonight” - and delivered them to the bathroom. Ziva was braiding her damp hair. Before she dressed, he disinfected the gravel rash on her leg and dressed her arm. He knew it had to sting like hell, but she stood like a rock and didn’t flinch once. 

“Tea or booze?” he asked, dropping the packaging from the dressing in the trash. 

“Tea,” she said. The first time she had spoken since she’d cried. Her voice was steadier and less broken, but still a little hoarse. “I will meet you in bed.” 

He chose peppermint from the array she kept in the pantry. He remembered being told once that it was soothing, so it seemed like the right choice now. He knew her kitchen well, and wasn’t long in the process, but she was already tucked in bed by the time he delivered the steaming brew to her bedside table.

Ziva was sitting up, still awake, dabbing arnica ointment on her ribcage. Tony slid under the covers beside her, waiting until she was done. 

“Feel more like yourself, now?” he asked after she’d had the first few sips. 

She nodded quietly. “Thank you.” 

“Always,” he promised. “So... pretend to sleep, actually sleep, or talk?” 

Ziva breathed out shakily. “Talk.” 

He smoothed the covers down gently and turned to face her a little more directly. “Okay, ready when you are.”