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How are things with Tony?
Ziva stares at the bathroom mirror, fixing her hair in a way that might look presentable. They’ve been working the whole afternoon, organizing files of clients who have already been protected, prioritizing those who still need their services, and dealing with new potential ones. It’s safe to say Tony has made a name for himself in Paris regarding American businessmen. They all trust him enough to only search for his company, which means shifts filled with bureaucracy and new goals to be achieved.
Booming. It's safe to say the business is booming. She had no doubt he would prove himself to be a good business owner. It’s in his blood - to lead and use his charm this way - so it shouldn’t surprise her. As much as she got to know him as an irresponsible, immature agent, this was long ago. He always got the work done in the end. But still, when Ziva stepped foot in that office and realized her longtime partner was bossing everyone around this time, she couldn’t fight the little spark of surprise that bloomed inside her chest.
“Shall we?” he calls from the hall.
Ziva stares at the mirror, worrying. Worrying they were taking things too quickly, worrying that Tali wouldn’t take it well if they didn’t, worrying that they would destroy it otherwise. This fragile thing she has no choice but to call a relationship. It took almost nothing for her to worry these days. Still, she breathes, taking it all in, and steps outside, saying, “Yes.”
Tony’s eyes widen immediately, noticing the mid-black dress and high heels. Yes. Maybe she took an extra effort to make herself look beautiful, but it felt good to have his appreciation so clear again. She was familiar with the little tug of his smile when he watched her—the one that let her know he was proud of being the man alongside her—and Ziva had missed it. It’s true.
She blushes, feeling flustered. How wonderful it feels to like him after all these years still.
“M’lady.” Tony extends an arm. And taking it, they are on their way.
Red wine lingers on her tongue. There are candles everywhere. Yes, she has to admit this is romantic. More romantic than either of them was accustomed to—the restaurant was dimly lit, a warm glow making her concentrate on the man sitting in front of her. He hadn’t averted his eyes from her since they got there. Even when placing their orders, his gaze had stayed on her as if letting her know he was seeing her. Ziva let him take out her chair. Let him order steak and wine. Let him lead their conversation.
But there are topics they don’t talk about. It is an unspoken rule.
There is an uneasiness bubbling underneath the surface that neither wants to address. Why pop the bubble when the dust has finally settled?
And so, they tiptoe around it. They don’t speak about mistakes. The past. Why their daughter didn’t sleep the first week Ziva got back. Why she keeps having nightmares about it. They tried to create an atmosphere that would ease this moment for her, and perhaps they fell on it themselves.
Another sip of wine and the words rise to her throat. Ziva isn’t sure how long she can keep doing this without addressing the obvious. She knows how he feels and what he built toward. The way Tony handles things - with much more flourish and romance than she is used to - seems unnecessary. When all Ziva wants is simplicity. An answer. Many answers.
It suffocates her.
He’s in the middle of a sentence when she accidentally clinks her glass on his.
“And Tali’s school—”
“What are we?”
The silence is so loud that it seems like a thick cloud of smoke is in the air. Ziva shouldn’t feel angry. She had no right to.
But still, when she stares at him, the way Tony’s mouth hangs open when she assesses him, a bubble of irritation brims in her stomach.
She doesn’t have answers to such simple questions, which leads her to overthink and collect puzzle pieces neither of them could put in a straight line. Why did he bother to take her out when they already had a child? Why did she feel guilty touching him if the desire was still clearly there? What is love if not the choice to be there for each other?
What were they doing wrong?
Tony’s eyes narrowed as if trying to pinpoint the trigger that got her to ask that. Ziva studies him. The way his bubbly persona falls when he realizes how serious she’s talking, trying to find a path that would lead them out of there.
“We’re her parents,” Tony says cautiously.
Yes. Tali was the common denominator that united them these days. Ever since she got back, Ziva had put all her effort into making her feel cared for, into solving her needs… They didn’t have time to think about what they were doing before it all happened. It was awkward not to be a couple when they already had a child. To live under the same roof and forget about intimacy. It had been years since they’d spent this long together.
She forgot how it was to act around him.
“Oh.” Tony smiles, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. “You mean… What are we doing on a Friday night while we’re both done with work and our daughter is in her grandpa’s house sleeping until morning? We’re… Adults. Enjoying their free time. Sharing a good glass of cabernet sauvignon. Reflecting if we’re too old to be drinking this much alcohol late at night.” He takes the bottle, narrowing his eyes at the label. “Is this a hundred percent liquor? You wouldn’t know, would you? You’re like an Israeli Black Sparrow. Penelope Cruz, 2011. Searching for the fountain of youth. Perhaps she can give me a hint or two. I’m feeling a little tipsy.”
Ziva watches him. Remembering how deeply she knows him—how he falls behind comedy to mask his insecurities. How when a joke lands poorly, he clicks his tongue.
“My therapist asked me about you today,” Ziva shared.
Tony’s eyes widen in surprise. “He did? It is a he, right?”
“Yes. Doctor Lang.”
It shouldn’t matter. After she got back, she started seeing a therapist to control the fits of anxiety that were hitting her. It helped. Lang organized her thoughts and made her see things more clearly. He knew the importance of Tony in her life.
How things had played out. That was the one subject she had difficulty tackling.
Not her family. Not her sins.
Him. He was still unresolved.
“What, is he interested? What are you telling him about me?” Tony chuckles, although it’s clear that he’s nervous. Ziva tries to ease the atmosphere.
“Nothing that would further inflate your ego,” she replies. She can see when his shoulders relax despite the light insult. “It is… natural. It is a part of therapy.” But Tony wouldn’t know. He refuses to seek anyone himself. And so, Ziva explains. “He wants me to talk about my personal life. Dig and explore what he considers ‘the inner levels of thoughtfulness.’” She remembers the exact words he used. “It appears I am a rather observant, private person. What I think gets stored in my head for so long that it turns into a blind spot. I wrongfully deduce others are aware of what I find obvious, although that is far from the truth. He showed me I am not that easy to read.”
“Really? I would never have guessed.” Sarcastic.
“I told him about you.”
His eyes turn earnest. His face softens. She can see he cares because Tony nervously twirls the napkin on his fingers.
“And what did you tell him?” he asks.
“I told him about how we met.”
Tony nods, lip-tight. “Cheerful times, those. I thought you were a spy, y’know? Knives and foreign languages. A past with our director. It was unsettling, at best.”
“In a way, I was a spy. But I do not remember it as such. It was raining.”
“Yes, it was. You told me about your sister.”
Ziva watches him. For a man staring at her since they got there, he now can’t meet her eyes. She hates it. She hates that things are still unsettled, an enigma of someone sitting before her. She hates that he feels bad for it. What she hates most is that there should be peace. It should be peaceful to find a resolution. She should find peace in this, even while questioning things. Even without knowing, she remembers.
Deep in her bones, she knows what she feels for this man.
“I remember.” Ziva lays a hand on top of his. Tony’s eyes stray toward it immediately. “I remember you.”
She does. It feels good to let him know that. If anything, that was what Anthony DiNozzo had brought to her life.
The ability to feel. To remember.
And it seems enough when he brushes his thumb over her knuckles. It makes Ziva smile—a truce.
He looks at her, eyes honest.
“I remember you, too," he replies.
And it's even more than enough.
Ambling dazily under the streetlights of Paris. That is a good risk factor for overthinking her relationship with the man she has known for decades. And who’s supporting her in walking back home with calloused feet. Ziva got rid of the heels somewhere in the middle of their way when Tony promptly extended an arm toward her.
That is exactly what worries her, what she’s urging to talk to Dr. Lang about. Not the way he touches her, not the way he’s there, always supporting her… But the way she lets him.
The way she accepts it and even grows fond of it.
What did that mean in the end? For all the things she’s dreamed of, she didn’t expect her relationship with him to be like this. It felt like they were inside a snow globe—perfect and fragile. It seemed like it could blow up at any second. Ziva even wished it would.
Then, they would be forced to talk. He would give her an explanation.
Ziva anxiously calculates how the shadows of their apartment complex are getting bigger, looming closer. It’s only a lampost away. Despite the conversation over dinner, they’d deviated from the topic, choosing lighter ones. They ate, drank, and cherished each other.
Wasn’t that what it was supposed to be like?
Tony glances at her, calm. So in contrast to the turmoil of doubts circling in Ziva’s mind, she finds herself unable to escape it this time. She returns to that conversation if only to press him about it.
“What are we doing, Tony?”
She’s tired. Abysmally tired of thinking all of the time, calculating every step. Glancing upward at him, Ziva catches when the tiny flicker of annoyance flashes over Tony’s face.
But still, he takes his hands out of his pockets and moves closer, looking at her. Assessing.
Seeing things Ziva still couldn’t see.
“We’re on a date,” he watches her. “They say wine prevents cardiac arrest. Wasn’t it about time for us to have a glass?”
Ziva knows he means more than the literal meaning of it. But she can't stretch it out. And under Tony’s attentive stare, she suddenly regrets returning to that conversation before the night ended.
First, she needs to deal with this alone. Then, with her doctor, she should put these… feelings accordingly inside their boxes. Perhaps the wine had clouded her judgment, and she tried again, teasing him.
“Are you saying you are getting old?”
“I would never say that. But by the way, I have your reading glasses. Took them by mistake today, thinking they were mine.”
Ziva watches as his smart eyes track her face, understanding he knew there were still matters left unsaid. But, silently, they exchange a look. Both knew that perhaps the lack of a term was easier than facing a lie. Facing the past and all its missing pieces. She cocks her head, feeling restless but accepting his choice. Tony tips his chin, taking a step toward her.
He opens his mouth and then closes it again. She wishes it was easy to talk about this as much as he found it easy to talk about everything else. Tony, however, hesitates, narrowing his eyes and then sighing, chuckling in irony—clearly struggling to find his words.
He steps toward her again, and it’s close enough now for Ziva to angle her face to catch his eyes.
She’s surprised when his fingers brush hers, taking her hand into his.
Both hands. Thumbs gently brushing over her knuckles.
Tony inhales deeply. Then, he lets out, “You’re Ziva. You’re my…” The lack of a term breaks her heart for a thousand times. Was there even a word to describe them? Ziva isn’t sure if she wants him to answer it. But Tony continues to watch her, and his face fully softens as he says, “You’re my Ziva.”
Butterflies.
Goddamnit. In the most surprising times, he speaks precisely the thing that makes her heartbeat turn erratic. A feeling so foreign but with him... Familiar. Awaited.
“Yours?”
“Yes,” he says, resolute.
Another lingering look. And as soon as Tony sees she accepts it by how it is, a small smile appears in the corner of his mouth.
“OK,” Ziva tells him—having no idea how he knew its effect on her.
But it seems enough. It is enough for now to accept his charm, although evasive response, and keep the dream running.
Right there, in that time of her life… It is enough to be someone’s something.
To belong.
To belong to him.
“Good.” Tony tugs her hand, pulling her toward the apartment complex. The front door leading to their hall is made of painted glass. Tony stands beside it, tapping his pockets with exaggerated comedy. “Now, help an old man out. I can’t find the house keys." He huffs, feigning exasperation. "I think I’m too old for stumbling drunk like this. The spot below my right knee is hurting. I need a new rocking chair. Will you care for me when I can’t get up from my rocking chair and call for you in the middle of the night? Complain all the time and speak too much nonsense?”
“I cannot keep track of all the nonsense you already speak.”
He finds the keys putting them in the lock. “I’ll take that as a yes,” he says, then faces her. “Is that a yes, sweet cheeks? Don’t make me beg for an explanation of your ‘inner levels of thoughtfulness.’”
“Oh, shut up.”
Tony’s hands are cupping her cheeks before she finishes to laugh, feeling drunk on him. He kisses her, pulling her face toward his, fingers hooking over the threads of her hair and framing her cheeks, his tall, solid body quickly flushing against hers. Ziva lets him steal quick pecks over her laughter, hands moving to squeeze his wrists.
By the threshold of their glass-painted door, he kisses her, one final lingering kiss letting her know there was more still to be shared. Tony presses his forehead against hers, and Ziva knows. He doesn’t have to speak a thing, and she knows what he means.
That the many obstacles they had faced to get there weren’t worthy of staying a second longer apart.
And even if she doesn’t get the answers she sought, Ziva still lets him kiss her. She lets herself be guided by him, indeed stumbling drunk in the darkness of their shared apartment, laughing at furniture that got in their way—taking off clothes before reaching the bedroom. Sharing whatever can only stay unspoken, touching and kissing in the dark. Tony looks at her, watches as she moves, and loves her still. And despite all the answerless questions, Ziva knows it to be true. Her heart sings for him with the only title she can give him.
Partner.
And despite all the hardships, their blood and skin understood.