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"Pumpkin spice latte, please."
Tony eyed her with suspicion. "Who are you, and what have you done to my partner?"
Ziva shot him a confused look, before focusing on the wide variety of fall themed muffins and cupcakes.
He leaned in closer. "Since when does our local ninja assassin order pumpkin spiced anything?"
"Since Abby bought me one after I helped her with something," she said matter-of-factly.
"Hmm, should've know nothing good could come from a goth mad scientist and a Mossad spy working together."
"What do you have against pumpkin spice?"
"It's...girly, what did you help Abby with?"
"You had a pumpkin spice latte yesterday."
"I am very confident in my manhood."
Ziva looked him up and down slowly.
He held up a finger to silence her. "You, Abby, tell me."
"She wanted my help reconstructing a murder."
The barista placed her drink on the counter, she ignored his wide-eyed look, and grabbed the latte with a smile of gratitude.
They walked out of the coffee shop, and were greeted with a pleasantly warm breeze for the time of year. Ziva looked up at him gleefully. "She even made fake blood, the consistency was perfect, it wasn't body temperature, unfortunately."
Tony stopped in his tracks, and she followed suit looking up at him questioningly, before taking a sip from her latte and humming in approval.
"Everyone at the office is going to call you the pumpkin spice assassin, you know that right?" He asked with a grin.
Ziva narrowed her eyes. "And why would they do that?"
"Because I have given every new hire of the past five years a nickname that stuck like glue." He grinned widely.
Ziva chuckled. "And how many of them were Mossad assassins, with a brand new friend in forensics?"
His grin faltered, and she patted him on the cheek. "Good decision."
Ziva took another sip, and they continued their walk. A moment later, she angled her head towards him. "Agent donut?"
Tony nodded and chuckled.
"Not very original, from what I understand that is a well-known stereotype."
Tony shook his head, trying to contain his laughter. "Not the food, he got shot in the butt." He laughed out loud.
Ziva looked at him with annoyance. "What is so funny about-"
He grabbed her arm, now wheezing with laughter. "No, he," he swallowed hard and tried to regain some composure, "he had to sit on one of those inflatable donut cushions for a month. Sometimes, it would make a farting sound when he moved, which is exactly what happened when we were all in MTAC updating the SecNav on a terrorist cell that had been caught buying big piles of manure to make explosives."
Ziva snorted as the scene played out in her mind. "That is funny." She looked at him pointedly, the corners of her mouth twitching. "If you are twelve."
He chuckled again, seeing right through her facade. "Looks like we're both twelve on the inside, then, Ziva."