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justtellher · 2 months

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Stupidly Lovely Human Traditions (A Good Omens Fanfic)

A/N: Felt like writing something fluffy for our ineffable pair this Valentine’s Day as a little break from my current WIP. So please enjoy this little fluffy one-shot that was loosely inspired by @gleafer’s adorable little comic that delighted my brain and spiraled out into it's own story from there. You can also read on ao3 here.

It’s a stupid holiday, he thinks as he passes by yet another gaudy chocolate-and-heart window display and weaves through the crowded Soho street filled with both shops and people dressed in their Valentine’s Day finest.

Humans had always had a weird sense of logic though for the organization of their holidays: from celebrating the birth of Jesus five months early so as not to lose the opportunity to decorate trees to the strange British tradition of random bank holidays with no assigned meaning. So really, naming a holiday of love for a man who was gruesomely martyred and buried on the Via Flaminia wasn’t that far of a stretch.

He barely manages to swing out of the way in time to avoid taking a dozen roses to the face as a flustered florist bustles by with a frankly ostentatious arrangement balanced precariously in their hands, and Crowley grumbles under his breath as he brushes a few lost petals off of his jacket. Yellow roses, he notes amusedly, denoting jealousy. He hopes the recipient isn’t well versed in the language of flowers.

Few humans were anymore though, a loss of knowledge which greatly entertained Crowley anytime he passed by a stand selling rather confused messages of bouquets. Now, it was simply roses, roses, roses for romancing one’s partner. If you bought into that sort of thing, which Crowley absolutely did not. Why did one need generic gifts given on a randomly appointed day to prove love for their partner? To be fair, he’d spent most of his existence without having (or at least pretending not to have) any romantic feelings of the sort. But even now that he and Aziraphale had finally gotten on the same page post the Second Coming of it all, he still didn’t see the point. It felt cheesy and trite.

Not to mention the utterly ridiculous levels of sappy, corny adverts, gifts, and romantic drivel that seemed to pour out of stores and his favorite television show breaks as soon as New Years ended. Torturous and hellish it was.

Which meant that naturally of course, humans had invented it entirely on their own.

He shifts the bottle of wine he’d just purchased to his other hand and crosses the road at a light jog to avoid the Valentine acapella service currently delivering a pitchy serenade to a young woman seated outside at Marguerite’s. Normally, he wouldn’t leave his flat on February 14th, much preferring to sleep through the nonsense, or he would slink over to the bookshop to badger Aziraphale into letting him lounge idly on the sofa. The latter of which he had been successfully doing until said angel had suggested the possibility of a bottle of wine, the type of which did not exist in the cellar and just had to be procured by Crowley from the local shop.

“Y’know, angel, you can still miracle things,” Crowley had protested when Aziraphale had looked over at him imploringly from his latest binding repair work.

A put-out sigh escaped his partner’s lips, “Well, yes dear, but,” the angel’s lips formed a soft pout as his eyes sparkled at Crowley over the rims of his glasses, “it’s never the same.”

And so off Crowley had gone to the wine shop, cursing his inability to resist Aziraphale’s pleading blue stare.

Speaking of said angel, Crowley belatedly notices him exiting the shop just as he makes it to the door with a huff, unable to stop his brusque forward momentum quickly enough to avoid their small collision. He slams into the angel with a small grunt, Aziraphale’s hands shooting out to grab his waist in an effort to steady them both with a small chuckle,

“Careful, dear,” those troublesome blue eyes glint up at Crowley, and the angel leans up to press a soft kiss to Crowley’s cheek in greeting. “Just stepping out for a quick moment, but you should go ahead inside.”

Crowley feels his cheeks heat slightly. He’s still not quite used to this ease of unguarded affection they’re afforded now. It feels surreal still, being able to love him openly. He slides his own hands around the soft curve of Aziraphale’s waist and returns the greeting with a kiss of his own to the angel's upturned lips. Aziraphale hums contentedly against his mouth, and Crowley’s heart gives a soft skip.

It feels surreal still, that Aziraphale loves him back.

“More miracle-less shopping, angel?” Crowley teases against his lips.

Aziraphale pulls back, face flushed prettily as he smooths his hands up Crowley’s chest to give a gentle tug on his lapels (which absolutely does nothing to the demon’s ability to breathe deeply). “Something like that,” he replies with an unfathomable smirk.

“You do realize that’s almost as infuriating of a response as wait and—” A sharp whack to his back cuts off his retort as another petite florist murmurs, “Terribly sorry!”, and scurries around them carrying a somehow even larger floral arrangement than the last one he’d been accosted with.

Crowley groans, “Ergh, bloody ridiculous holiday this one.” He gestures broadly, “Can’t even walk outside without being assaulted by sodding rose bushes.”

Aziraphale regards him with an amused smile and an affectionate roll of his eyes, “Yes dear, you were very brave to go out at all.”

“Bastard,” Crowley mutters lovingly, and the smirk returns to Aziraphale’s lips as he leans in to press another kiss to the demon’s mouth,

“So I’ve been told,” he whispers lowly against the corner of Crowley’s lips, and dammit that had no right to pulse heatedly through his veins the way it did. He tilts his head slightly to capture Aziraphale’s lips properly again, but finds that the angel is already pulling back and out of his arms. Crowley staggers slightly at the unexpected movement as his partner gives him a gleeful smile,

“I’ll be back in two shakes of a lamb's tale.” And then he’s disappearing around the corner, leaving Crowley to stare after him as his heart rate struggles to even back out at the abrupt change in tone.

The doors to The Dirty Donkey open with a sudden bang, flooding the street momentarily with the blaring notes of “My Heart Will Go On”, as a raucous group spills into the busy street, and Crowley finds his earlier annoyance return to him with a start. Groaning in disgust, he fumbles for the door handle and throws himself across the threshold and into the respite of the bookshop, flinging his glasses off as he steps down the entry stair into the shop and sets them along with the wine bottle down on the nearest table. Sighing in relief, he takes in the familiar setting around him and freezes, mouth parted slightly in shock.

This is not the same bookshop he left earlier.

Tables have been shifted around so that they line the shop entryway more purposefully; Aziraphale’s prized gramophone sits on one next to two stemmed wine glasses, the gentle lyrics to I’ll Be Your Mirror filtering softly through the air from its speaker. Crowley swallows thickly against the sudden lump that’s formed in his throat. He doesn’t remember ever telling Aziraphale that’s one of his favorite songs.

Or that the angel even knew how to find a record he considered “bebop.”

The rest of the tables are covered in vase after vase of flowers. No one had ever actually bought him flowers, he realizes idly, as he moves regard the tables more closely. Pristine cuttings in a riot of colors fill the space, and Crowley struggles to take them all in as his lungs make a valiant attempt to remember to take shallow breaths. Because, oh, these flowers are not just roses; his eyes burn slightly and his chest feels tight as he takes note of the various arrangements.

And unlike most humans, Aziraphale had not forgotten the meaning of flowers.

He trails a tentative hand over a delicate blue hyacinth. Your loveliness charms me. Fragrant apple blossoms–I prefer you before all–fill his senses and compete with the gentle undertones of a nearby bunch of yellow honeysuckle: Devoted affection. Muted surprise catches his breath as he notes a stunning group of red tulips–I declare my love–and he can’t control the embarrassing stutter of his heart as he moves along the series of porcelain holders to admire the pure white bouquets of lilies and daisies. My love for you is pure and true. A selection of elegant dahlias sends a soft shudder through his spine–Eternal commitment–as the shop door opens and shuts softly behind him.

“I do hope it’s not too much,” Aziraphale begins nervously.

Crowley whips around to stare openly at his angelic counterpart, a small “ngk” escaping his mouth which makes the angel smile tenderly. Aziraphale stands before him, evening light catching softly on his white blond curls, velvet vest shimmering slightly in the sunset, blue eyes regarding him with so much overt love and adoration that Crowley finds he temporarily forgets to breathe.

Sometimes it still surprises him. That someone can have that much love for him.

“Just one flower was missing,” Aziraphale continues, crossing the space between them to stand in front of the still wordless demon. The angel chuckles lightly, “Luckily it's still very popular in human traditions.” He reaches out a hand, and Crowley finally looks down and takes note of what the angel had stepped out to buy.

A single, perfect red rose. Ardent love, passion. Love found at first sight. Crowley inhales shakily as he accepts the flower with a trembling hand, and he glances back up to meet his partner’s waiting stare.

“Aziraphale…” he manages to whisper past the torrid of emotions swirling through his chest. He clears his throat thickly, tries to find some combination of words that will appropriately convey the overwhelming affection threatening to burst through his ribs at this unexpected gesture, “I don’t k–”

“I know it’s a silly holiday,” Aziraphale interjects anxiously, tugging at his vest as he glances down at their feet. “It’s just…,” blue eyes look back up to meet Crowley’s with a determined sincerity, “we almost didn’t get this, and I think we deserve to celebrate these little, human moments.” A hand darts out to clasp the demon’s free one with a firm squeeze. “You deserve lovely traditions, and—”

A loving ache tears through Crowley, overriding his overwhelmed thoughts as he leans forward and captures Aziraphale’s lips in a searing kiss. Releasing the angel’s grasp, he brings his hand up to cup Aziraphale’s cheek and deepens the kiss as his partner releases a surprised breath, parting his lips under Crowley’s with a small whimper, and the demon focuses on pouring every feeling of gratitude and love that he can into brush of his lips, the sweep of his tongue. Words were overrated, he decides as Aziraphale clutches at his lapels in response and sinks his teeth gently into Crowley’s bottom lip, sending a flood of liquid heat up the demon’s spine and pulling a low moan from his throat .

Maybe this holiday wasn’t so stupid after all.

Aziraphale breaks the kiss on a shaky breath, pulling back slightly, and Crowley blinks dazedly at him as the angel’s lips quirk into a self-satisfied smile, “So, I take it no need to return everything then? Because I can always throw it all away…” Blue eyes twinkle in mirth, and Crowley chuckles exasperatedly. Bastard.

He’s ridiculously in love with him.

Leaning forward once again, Crowley presses his forehead against Aziraphale’s, “Shut up, angel.” He places a firm kiss on his lips. “S’Perfect.” Another kiss, and then he tips his head back to meet the angel’s now soft gaze once more, “I love it,” he whispers, emotion filling his voice; he smooths a thumb across Aziraphale’s cheek and watches the swirl of gentle emotions the action evokes in it’s owner’s blue eyes, “I love you.”

Aziraphale face alights at his words, the corners of his eyes crinkling as his mouth parts in a radiant smile. “I love you too, my dear,” his voice trembles slightly in a kind of disbelieving wonder that causes Crowley’s heart to thump painfully in his chest.

Maybe it still surprises them both sometimes. That they finally made it here. That they no longer have to pretend not to be a pair.

An idea surfaces in his mind suddenly, and he reaches over to lay the rose on the closest table, giving a small flick of his wrist toward the player to restart the record with barely a skip. Aziraphale’s eyes follow his movements curiously as Crowley takes the angel’s hands in his and pulls him gently toward the center of the floor, “You deserve lovely traditions too, angel.”

Aziraphale blushes lightly as he stares at the demon who places one arm around his waist and raises their other joined hands to shoulder height.

“Dance with me?” Crowley asks earnestly. Aziraphale laughs with a surprised delight and places his free hand gently on Crowley’s shoulder, stepping close to him with an affectionate press,

“I’d love to.”

Crowley smiles openly at him in return and begins to spin them slowly around the room.

“Did you ever meet him?” Aziraphale inquires as they move, “Saint Valentine?”

“Hmmm, don’t think I was actually in Rome at the time, you?”

“No, I believe I was somewhere in China during the 3rd century…”

One song fades into another as they continue to sway in each other’s arms; soft laughter and easy conversation echoing through the shop and filling Crowley with the peaceful, warm fondness that’s been permanently etched into his soul for the many millennia he’s known Aziraphale. A love returned and cherished now. His gaze catches on the myriad of flowers surrounding them, each one a love note, a card written in floral script, and he smiles broadly as Aziraphale says something unintentionally witty before leaning in to meet his grinning lips with his.

They were rather lovely after all, Crowley decides, some of these silly, human traditions.

#good omens fanfiction #good omens fanwork #ineffable husbands fanfic #good omens fic #good omens fanfic #good omens fan fiction #ineffable fanfic #ineffable fic #ineffable fandom #good omens fics #justtellher fanfiction #go fanfic #go fic #good omens #ineffable husbands #aziracrow #aziracrow fanfic #aziracrow fic #good omens fanfic rec #good omens fluff #this little fluffy oneshot just wouldn't leave me alone this evening #so here enjoy my little valentine's brain rot of these two being soft idiots for each other #back to writing my regularly scheduled feels next #chapter 4 of give me peace is almost done #I just needed fluff for vday #I blame everyone's fluffy fanart #especially gleafers who gave me the first wiggle of an idea that then became this fic #I am not an expert on flower language #I just harnessed some well researched articles via google and took my favorite interpretations shamelessly #so don't come at me

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justtellher · 2 months

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give me peace (in a lifetime of war) 4/15

Chapter 4: i’ve never loved a darker blue (our truth is burned from history)

At some point he takes a wrong turn, a left instead of a right, and finds himself wandering down a narrow corridor, almost to the end before he realizes the error. Shaking his head at the confusing layout, the angel moves to turn around when his eyes catch on the soft light shimmering beyond the corridor’s end. Glittering hues of orange and yellow and red; the only color he’s seen in days outside of fluorescent shades of white or cream. The first colors Aziraphale can remember seeing in Heaven for ages. Curiosity courses through him. His pace quickens along the narrow way as he rounds the corner into a grand atrium and stutters to a stop with a shallow gasp. A seemingly endless gallery spreads before him, open vantage points spaced every so often along its path. The ceiling is almost translucent and the windows are Heaven’s usual transparent glass; only here there is no sterile lighting looking out over the eras of mankind’s monuments. Here, there is no installed lighting at all. Starlight, a riot of color, instead fills the grand hall.

read on ao3 | ff.net

Chapter 1 | Chapter 2 | Chapter 3

#good omens fanfiction #good omens fanwork #ineffable husbands fanfic #good omens fic #good omens fanfic #good omens fan fiction #ineffable fanfic #ineffable fic #ineffable fandom #good omens fics #justtellher fanfiction #go fanfic #go fic #good omens #ineffable husbands #aziracrow #aziracrow fanfic #aziracrow fic #good omens fanfic rec #i'm so proud of this chapter honestly #it took me forever #I am so behind on work now because this took over my brain lol #author uses a lot of star metaphors and puts her semester as an astrophysics major too good use #please enjoy my pain #i love my two little occult idiots #and they are working on their communication and their trauma #and then by god I am giving them the SOFTEST reunion and epilogue #and going to write fluff and smut for months after this #author had a lot of fun imagining the heavenly postal system #aziraphale

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justtellher · 6 months

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Fic Update: give me peace (in a lifetime of war)

Drops chapter two onto your dash. At first this chapter gave me a bit of a struggle, it's one of the only few I didn't have already plotted out, yet was so necessary to get us firmly into the story. In the end, I finally figured out where Aziraphale wanted to start his side of this tale--I only had to watch and cry through the last 15 minutes of Season 2 about 30 times to get it right. Send tissues.

As always you can find the fic here on ao3.

Summary: A Story of the Second Coming, or How an Angel & a Demon Find Their Way Back to Each Other and Maybe Save the World Along the Way.

Prologue | Chapter 1

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Chapter 2: do you know i could break (of the goodness, love)

He’s not sure how long he stands in the middle of the bookshop, unmoving, a trembling hand pressed to his lips. His legs have turned leaden, anchoring him to the worn wood floors, and he stares blankly at the now closed door, his chest a painful flutter of warring emotions. He wants to run after him; he wants to hide for another 6000 years; he wants the firm press of Crowley’s lips against his again; he wants to never again feel this kind of temptation. In short, Aziraphale wants.

And isn’t that the crux of the problem?

Do that again.

His heart pounds as he fights simultaneous guilt and elation, cursing Crowley mildly for deciding to show his hand at what might possibly be the worst timing in their shared existence. Because what was he supposed to do now? How is he supposed to reconcile this chance for change with the overwhelming desire he has to run out into the street and grab the confusing demon he calls his friend and beg him to do it again. To kiss him again and again until Aziraphale can make sense of the fluttering in his chest and the burning of his lips. It took everything in him to repress the words in the moment, to tamp them down while he grappled for just a moment to think. In their stead, he’d fumbled at half processed words of forgiveness. A misnomer, he realized as soon as the words left his mouth. The only person in the room who needs forgiveness is Aziraphale himself.

Because, oh, for an angel to want this much, it must surely be a sin.

A shimmer of sunlight catches his eye, and his gaze wanders over to the window as he releases an uncertain breath; which his lungs then immediately attempt to reclaim on a sharp inhale as he takes note of the lanky figure leaning heavily against the Bentley, all sharp angles and red hair. Crowley’s eyes are hidden behind his usual dark frames, but Aziraphale feels the intensity of them all the same as the demon watches the shop with a sort of resigned sadness. Honestly, Aziraphale is surprised to find him waiting there at all.

He never leaves first, you know that, a small voice inside him chimes, and the truth of it is a knife stabbed deep into his gut and another tally in the list of his sins that only seems to grow. It’s a verity he’s always known even when his mind attempts to ignore it: Crowley has never left him. Aziraphale is always the one to push away first, to reset the distance between them lest anyone take note of its shrinking. Crowley would gladly keep pushing forward, a reckless fixture at Aziraphale’s side even at the threat of his own existence, while Aziraphale struggles to keep a careful tab on measured space and attempts to be a voice of reason that keeps them alive another day. No, Crowley will never truly leave unless Aziraphale does first.

I need you.

If he’s honest with himself, he doesn’t want to leave. He’s so tired of separation.

Tell me you said no.

He replays their argument over in his head and tries to understand his own mind. It’s a good thing right? The Metatron’s offer would allow them to really fix things in Heaven. Surely Crowley was just being too stubborn to realize the opportunity they were being given to influence how the show was truly being run; to share their perspective on how to serve humanity without the need to end it all.

To finally be valued for the differences they had forever been derided for.

I don’t think you understand what I’m offering you.

Wasn’t that the whole point of it all? If Heaven could accept Beelzebub and Gabriel seeing the beauty in each other and let them be, then didn’t that mean that they were finally ready for change? Why else would the Metatron offer the highest ranking position of heaven to the angel who was already most like his predecessor if they didn’t see the value in their shared opinions? He glances again through the window; perhaps he should go try to speak to (and definitely not kiss) Crowley again—get him to see his misunderstanding.

I think I understand a whole lot better than you.

The memory makes him want to stamp his foot slightly in frustration because he has no idea what he’s supposed to do with that line. What chess piece is he supposedly missing, and why didn’t he press Crowley to explain rather than let himself get distracted by the sadness of the demon’s yellow eyes and the temptation of his frenetic lips. He glances toward the door again and presses a still shaky hand to his mouth once more.

You idiot.

In this moment he rather feels like one.

The bell above the shop jingles softly into the silence, and for a moment his heart gives a hopeful lurch, positive that it’s Crowley, come back from his brooding across the street and ready to plan this out together, only to shutter rapidly in his chest at the wizened figure of the Metatron as he steps confidently into the shop. Aziraphale turns away quickly and tries to force his countenance into some semblance of composure.

“How did he take it?”

He fights a sudden urge to laugh or cry hysterically, unsure of which to choose. “Uh not well,” he settles on a disparaging chuckle as he turns back around.

The Metatron seems unfazed by this gaping breach in Aziraphale’s orbit, “Ah, well, always did want to go his own way.”

We need to get away from them, just be an us.

Aziraphale swallows the sudden lump in his throat and gives into the urge to look back through the side window at Crowley. Our way, he finds his mind automatically correcting, and he startles slightly as he glances nervously back at the Voice of God as he continues to talk, Aziraphale only catching something about questions as his gaze is pulled magnetically back to his demonic counterpart across the street, thoughts spinning. When had that become a habit he’d let slip in? This universal entanglement of ours in his speech? He’s not sure they ever talked about it.

Did Crowley not realize they were already an us?

“Right, ready to start?” The Metratron’s voice startles him back to the present, his face expectant as he looks at the floundering angel.

“I…” Aziraphale stutters, feeling a bit unmoored as to how he seemed to have officially agreed to this position, and oh, shouldn’t this question be easy? He should be ready right? He’s an angel of the Lord, his highest calling is to serve, this shouldn’t even be a contemplation, only a quick affirmative. He flails haplessly, watery eyes flitting around the bookshop as the rigid guilt of his mind tries to convince the traitorous pounding of his heart.

“...but um…my bookshop,” he offers up uselessly, trying to buy himself a moment more to think, even though he’s not sure how long it’s going to take to reconcile this sinking feeling in his gut. The Metratron easily deflects his excuse with some comment about Muriel watching over it that Aziraphale barely registers as he glances helplessly back through the window at the unmoving demon, and realizes he may never be able to rectify how this all got so horribly muddled.

“But..” he murmurs, no longer sure of what he’s protesting.

He could stand here until the end of time and never have an answer for this warring anguish between his holy duties and his selfish wants.

“Anything you need to take with you?” Metatron implores.

Yes, his heart whispers. Everything, him, Us. “No,” his propriety wins the minor skirmish over his tongue. He forces his gaze back to the angel in front of him, and wills himself not to cry.

We could have been…us.

He’s going to have to do this without him, Aziraphale realizes. Crowley made it clear that he didn’t want to join him, so if Aziraphale wants to serve his purpose and fulfill this role he’s going to have to do it alone. He would never force his friend to go somewhere he so vehemently opposes. No matter how much he desperately wishes to indulge his gluttony and have both.

“Nothing I can think of,” he continues. Lies, his heart volleys in retort.

“Ah,” the Metatron murmurs contently, turning without further preamble to depart the shop. Aziraphale feels the expected pressure to follow behind him like a stone slab heavy upon his chest, crushing the air from his lungs. He can’t help but steal another glance through the window.

“I think I–,” he starts suddenly, stepping forward with a lurch, because damn him, but he can’t do this. This can’t be right. He glances again at the window, at the unwavering constant of his life who is still standing, unmoving, a sad hunch in his shoulders. Why is he even doing this without him? He doesn’t want to do this without him.

He’s breaking his own heart.

But maybe he’s supposed to? He wavers and cuts himself off mid step. Because he’s supposed to say no to the demon and yes to Heaven, right? If they’re at odds, he’s supposed to want to do the right thing and help fix the broken system that’s asking for his help. He’s supposed to put righteousness above his own desires or at least go along as best he could, no? Even if Crowley couldn’t see the bigger impetus or picture, Aziraphale had to try, yes? To give into the quiet temptation of his own heart would surely be wrong by both their standards.

Angelic guilt settles over him, a reasoning he expected to feel more like a soothing salve rather than metallic prison, but he forces himself to smile. He could do this. For the sake of good for them all, he could do this. And then surely, he could get back to his quiet life and selfish wants. Provided those wants were still willing to speak with him. He takes a steadying breath.

“Nothing at all,” he finishes, blinking away any remaining vestiges of tears, and then forces himself to walk out of the bookshop.

Outside Soho is a clutter of people, a tumultuously wonderful display of humanity, as he trudges the seemingly infinite block to the Lift. His steps are heavy and the gnawing in his stomach rises to a rather worrying level as he pushes forward.

It takes thirty-seven steps to reach the Lift, and every single one of them feels more and more wrong.

“Well, I can’t think of a better angel–,” the Metatron chatters idly, and Aziraphale might feel flattered, except he can think of better angels. One of them is currently burning through the soft fabric of his jacket with the force of his gaze across the way. Not that Heaven would see it like that.

Come with me.

We can make a difference.

Oh, how he had wanted to change that for them, make them see what they had given up.

“--to wrap things up, and to set into motion the next step in the Great Plan,” the Voice of God continues, and Aziraphale’s mind ceases its dithering as it focuses on the Metatron’s words.

“Um, yes, you mentioned that,” he inquires as they stop just outside the Lift, “Can I know what it is?” Maybe this will give him the clarity he needs to stop himself from turning around and running from the wrongness settling into his bones, the despair he feels raging against his ribs.

“Well, it’s something we need an angel of your talents to direct,” he notices how the Metatron doesn’t meet his eyes fully on the flattery, but tries to take no heed of it. After all, change is hard; he’s rather terrible at it himself, “An angel who is familiar with how they do things on Earth.”

“Ah,” he murmurs. See, he attempts to soothe himself, this is the point, the divine mission. Aziraphale can make a difference with his angelic duties. It’s almost enough to tamp down the ache of his chest. Then, the Metatron turns around to open the Lift as he delivers a final line,

“We call it the Second Coming.”

Aziraphale feels his heart freeze in his chest as his mind draws a panicked blank.

When Heaven ends life here on Earth, it’ll be just as dead as if Hell ended it.

Oh God, he was so wrong. Crowley was absolutely right. His mind reels and his heart gives a feeble attempt at continuing to beat while he vaguely remembers to take shallow breaths. He should turn around now; supposed holy purposes be damned. The Metatron gives him a raised eyebrows glance of come along now, and all of Aziraphale’s instincts scream at him to run–his head and heart in a temporary truce of agreement.

He makes a stuttered turn of his head to the one person he’s been trying valiantly not to look at since leaving the bookshop. Crowley’s stare is resigned, steady, and practically unreadable behind dark lenses, and Aziraphale is going to owe him so many apology dances for this monumental fuck up of logic. He contemplates how he’s going to leave this situation gracefully, sending up a small prayer of thanks to Crowley for always waiting him out as it means at least the Bentley is still here.

He’ll never be safe now.

The thought whispers with the force of an omen, and Aziraphale stands frozen and bereft, a wild animal caught in the snare of his own sudden realization. Heaven will never let them live if they think he and Crowley will stand against them again. He takes an aborted glimpse at his steadfast friend, who will never let him face Heaven alone once he knows about this plan. Heaven will never let Crowley live. His vision swims slightly while his stomach lurches with the crash of nauseating reality, and Oh, he does have a purpose he finds, a calling written so strongly in his veins that it’s easy to decide, simple to choose. It’s not heavenly at all; instead it’s long-limbed and red haired; it’s 6,000 years of existence spent in parallel to a dastardly, funny, and good demon, and Aziraphale now understands he will do anything to make sure Crowley stays that way. Safe and alive.

Even if it means damning himself.

He squares his shoulders and takes one last deep breath of the warm, love drenched air he’s come to think of as the general background scent of Earth, ignoring the gentle pang in his chest and the welling of his eyes for how much he’ll miss it all, and steps forward into the Lift with a newly determined ease.

The doors slide closed. Beside him, the Metatron gives him a sideways glance and sigh that belies some underlying relief. No doubt, he thinks he’s succeeded in bringing a righteous Angel back into the fold for the Glory of Heaven. Aziraphale suppresses a laugh of hysteria at the thought and wonders if his multitude of sins can even be absolved anymore. Tries to decide if he even cares if they are.

Decides it maybe only matters that Crowley will someday understand and perhaps Forgive him.

They move increasingly upward in a mildly awkward silence, and Aziraphale attempts to formulate a plan, his mind swirling with possibilities and a latent hope that he can still somehow salvage all of this. After all, Aziraphale may be a bad angel of poor motive, but surely Heaven was just misguided and would see the real truth and light of the situation once he’d had time to explain it to them. He’s going to stop the Second Coming, he resolves with a small but confident smile.

Just as soon as he can get someone to tell him what and when it is.

The Lift slows to a stop and the doors slid open soundlessly into the vast expanse of Heaven. No one is around, save a lone Archangel–fellow archangel now he supposes which feels surreal. Michael arches a disdainful brow as Aziraphale and Metatron step off into the heavenly lobby with a soft click of shoes on tile even as she puts on a forced smile,

“Ah, Aziraphale so glad to see you’ve agreed to the job.”

Aziraphale gives her a strained grin in return, slipping back into the vice of civility he has long cultivated to carry him through many a performance review pre-Armageddon. “Yes, so pleased to be here, really.”

Metatron claps him on the shoulder with a pleased chuckle, “Well I shall leave you in Michael’s capable hands, then.”

“Oh, well what about the Second…” he begins, but the Metatron is already turning to putter down the hall with a dismissive wave of his hand.

“Yes, yes, all in good time,” he calls out before disappearing around a corner.

Aziraphale turns back to face Michael, her smile now soured into a downturned sneer, “Hmph, follow me I suppose.” Twisting on her heel, she takes off in a direction that Aziraphale can only assume still leads to the offices of the Archangels at a brusque clip, forcing him to jog slightly to catch up.

It’s endless rows after endless rows of white walls, windows, and desks. No doors, no dividers–he’d forgotten it was Heaven and not Hell that had invented the open office floor plan. Aziraphale finds it all disorienting to put it mildly, and a tired overwhelm lingers on the fringes of his brain as Michael prattles on endlessly through the halls about his new duties, expectations, and the array meetings they’ll need to get on his calendar.

“...and then of course you’ll want to rid yourself of that corporation as soon as possible, I’m sure…,” which snaps his attention back to the present as they arrive at an empty corridor with a grand but blank office that he supposes is now his.

“Of course,” he murmurs out of ingrained politeness.

“We can take care of it now if you’d prefer,” she offers with a raise of her hand, and then it all really does become too much.

“No!” he replies firmly, and it’s another sin to tally for his selfishness, but he can’t give up another thing today. God forgive him; he’s already given up more than he can part with. He straightens his stance and attempts to force as much of his newfound authority as he can muster into his voice as he continues, “No thank you, Michael. I’ll take care of it another day.”

“Well if you’re sure…” she begins, a perplexed frown forming lines on her forehead at his abrupt refusal.

“Yes, quite,” he interrupts, only capable of the slightest guilt at his potential rudeness as a profound exhaustion settles in around his temples, “I think I’d rather like some time just to settle in, if you please.”

She gives him a once over that suggests exactly how she feels about the lunacy of staying even one second longer than necessary in something as mundane as a body before rolling her eyes and giving an indifferent shrug, “Whatever. Suit yourself.”

Then she’s finally leaving him. Aziraphale lets out a heavy sigh and stares around aimlessly in the resulting quiet. There is none of the ambient background noise he’s come to expect from everyday life, and he finds it sets his nerves on edge trying to anticipate sounds it’s sure must be there.

Another bracing breath, and he crosses the empty expanse to the office space proper and lowers himself into the chair. A shudder passes through him–maybe it’s the sheer weariness of his corporation, or some strange side-effect to a physical body being placed into the heavenly sphere, but it feels so much colder here than he remembers. He tugs his jacket firmly around him, and wonders where he should start. It suddenly feels like such a daunting task, trying to change the whole of Heaven.

He closes his eyes resignedly and leans forward, pressing his forehead into the strange metal of the desk and attempts to sort through the day that has just wrought such chaos upon his life. Wills himself to formulate a plan and not get lost in the what-ifs of grasping hands, pleading eyes, and us. Silence folds in around him, his eyes feel damp, and there is a hollow ache settling mournfully into his chest.

His lips burn; he brings a hand up to press absent-mindedly at their warmth.

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justtellher · 10 years

Text

A Pause, a Moment (before we go on) -- A CS Ficlet

Summary: This just came into my mind after listening to "Tenerife Sea" by Ed Sheeran one too many times. Go listen for feels (x) . Emma and Killian find a moment in the midst of everything.

Spoilers: Very minor for S4

Disclaimer: Not mine, or else we would already have little pirates everywhere.

***

"And then we really should see about…"

Snow's voice muffles as she walks ahead down the docks, a stream of tasks flowing from her lips--byproducts of their most recent encounter with the still mysterious Snow Queen. Above him, the stars sparkle quietly in the deep blue-black of the night sky, and he tilts his head back as he walks to gain a better view. Ahead, Regina's voice gives a sardonic reply, and David's jumps in soon after, but he can't seem to bring himself to listen. The day started almost sixteen hours ago with one stroke of bad luck followed by a long futile trudge through the town's surrounding forest. His back and legs ache and his eyelids struggle to stay open as he scans the stars, sluggishly listing the names of this world's constellations in his mind.

"Hey."

Her voice cuts quietly through the tired fog of his musings, and he snaps his head forward to meet her equally exhausted features. He's standing still now--her parents and Regina far ahead, their voices merely muted ambient tones against the lapping of the water along the dock. He gives her a sheepish grin,

"Ah, sorry 'bout that, love," his hand raises to rub a well worn path behind his ear, " Got a bit distracted I'm afraid."

Emma gives a small shrug, a faint chuckle escaping her lips as her gaze casts over his face, and she steps closer, sliding effortlessly into the space in front of him until he could easily reach for her,

"I doubt we're missing anything that won't be rehashed and planned again by tomorrow." Her eyes meet his with a conspiratory glance that catches in the soft lighting of the realm's lampposts, turning her gaze a deep sea aquamarine that makes his breath catch.

Taking the last step forward, he circles his arms around her waist, his grin widening at the instinctive way she brings her hands to his chest, her fingers clenching the soft leather of his new jacket and pulling him even closer. Her answering smile causes her eyes to glimmer and his heart to stutter as he loses himself in her stare, drowns himself in the eddies of affection he finds there--a heady mixture of disbelief and warmth radiating through him.

Somedays he can't quite believe that they made it here. That the gods allowed her to save him.

After a moment he resurfaces, noting fondly how equally mesmerized she seems to be as well. There's a small smudge of dirt along her left cheek, compliments of an icy gust of wind knocking her to the forest floor; a trail of dust down her neck from the hours spent this afternoon pouring over magical tomes; and her eyes have faint purple marks circling underneath them from one too many early calls this week. The air seems to leave his lungs in a sudden rush.

Because gods, she is still beautiful.

His left hand (an extremity he is still becoming accustomed to having again) moves of its own accord to thread lightly through the silky strands of her golden hair, the way it gleams in the lamp glow an enchantment all its own. Her eyes flutter at the sudden gesture, and she tilts her head slightly as she continues to study him, gaze locked with his in a silent conversation all their own.

Hi.

How are you?

I love you.

Because even though they haven't said the words aloud yet; it's the moments like this one that leave him with no doubt that that is where they are headed--that all of the moments past and the ones future will eventually circle round to those three words that have been said a thousand times with just their eyes. His hand slides from her hair to her cheek, thumb stroking gently along the smooth skin of her jaw, chest constricting at the way she leans into his touch.

He's the luckiest man: to have her love him.

"Aye," he begins softly again, leaning his forehead against hers with a quiet sigh, "I suppose you're right Swan."

Blue-green orbs turn mischievous, "Well of course I am."

Her breath huffs against his cheek, and he finds himself chuckling at her boast before her lips cut him off with a kiss that both steals his breath and revives him at the same time. Pulling back, she gives him a sly grin before tucking her head under his chin, her arms moving naturally around him, bringing their bodies flush. His arms drop reflexively to her waist once more as his pulse pounds in his ears and his mind conjures up a thousand different ways to return her most recent assault on his senses-- he stifles an abrupt yawn--all of which will most likely need to wait until tomorrow when he feels less like one good push would do him in.

Glancing up along the expanse of the docks, he suddenly notices the rest of their contingency is long gone. He can almost hear Regina's impending passive aggression and the Charmings' worry. With a heavy sigh, he regretfully begins to unwrap himself from her embrace,

"Perhaps we'd better be getting on to…" But Emma interrupts his words with a soft hush, tightening her arms around him,

"Just enjoy the moment Killian." She turns her head to press a soft kiss underneath his jaw before burying her face again in his neck, "They'll be fine without us for a little while."

She breathes him in deeply, sighing softly against his skin as she relaxes further into him, and he feels all further arguments about her family's worry and appearances die in his throat as he rests his chin against the top of her head and resettles into her arms. Her warmth radiates through him, and as much as he regards this realm's clothing with a mixture of caution and confusion, he has to admit that the jeans and jacket he is wearing now allow him to appreciate the soft lines of her form against his far better than the heavy salt hardened leather of his past attire.

With a small hum of contentment, she nuzzles her nose against his neck, and his heart stammers at the confident affection she now displays so easily with him. The fact that she even returns his feelings at all a bewilderment to him still even after all of the weeks that now lay between them.

He silently thanks whatever deities there are for the second chance at life she's given him.

Pressing a fleeting kiss to her temple, he breathes in deeply, the salty smell of the ocean mixing with the cinnamon-vanilla spice that was uniquely Emma Swan. A happy warmth settles in his chest. The sea and her--he couldn't ask for anything else. He had somehow got everything he needed.

He takes another deep breath, closes his eyes and holds her imperceptibly closer. Tries to commit the feel of her to memory before the chaos of Storybrooke seeped back in. Follows her lead and allows himself to be taken under by the moment.

And hopes for a lifetime more.

#ouat #captain swan #cs ff #justtellher fanfiction #because damn if these two haven't taken over all of my thoughts #and this ed sheeran song just was so perfect for them #and before you knew it #bam fic #also wow #I haven't written anything in forever

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justtellher · 11 years

Photo

With a groan he falls face first onto their bed, feet dangling over the edge as he haphazardly toes off his shoes.

"I think I'm dying, Ziva."

Her laughter echoes in from the hallway as she follows her husband into the room, leaning gently against the door frame to slip off her heels. He lets out another small moan as he rolls his head from side to side against the comforter, and she shakes her head at his antics, an easy smile on her lips. Tony always did have a flair for the dramatic.

Twisting her hair into a bun, she crosses the room to join him; a sigh of relief slipping from her lips as she sinks against the soft mattress. Stretching out alongside him on her stomach, she smooths a hand across his shoulders, allowing her forehead to drop against his upper arm with a soft hum of contentment.

"Hmmm, somehow I think you will survive."

His answering huff is muffled against the bedding, and she raises her head again to find him staring at her, a frowning pout half-hidden in the sheets that fills her with an a sudden wave of affection.

"You're mocking my pain." he feigns hurt even as his lips part in an easy grin and his hand seeks out her free one across the duvet. Leaning forward, she nuzzles his cheek fondly before pressing a soft kiss to his skin.

"Maybe just a little," she admits, resting her head back against the bed and watching his green eyes sparkle in amusement at her in the soft light of the room.

He turns his head to face her with a small wince, and she slides the hand not holding his across his shoulders to rub his neck gently. He gives a small moan of approval in response, eyes meeting hers thoughtfully.

"Seriously though, mini-Palmer about did me in I think. Who knew 2 year-olds had so much energy?"

Laughter fills the quiet of the room as she remembers how Jimmy and Breena's adopted son had immediately taken to Tony that afternoon, running him up and down the hallway in a never-ending game of cops and robbers. It hadn't helped that Tony kept giving in to his pleas of "but I'm the birthday boy!" every time Tony tried to call a time-out.

"He was quite excited." Her fingers run soothing lines through his hair, and he lets out a content hum, thumb stroking rhythmically against the skin of her other hand.

"Excited is putting it mildly," he returns seriously, "if he's this intense at three you're going to be driving me to the hospital after the next birthday party."

She rolls her eyes in response. "Maybe you just need to work on your stamina," she quips, tugging lightly at his hair.

"Hey!" he yelps indignantly, "DiNozzo men have excellent stamina." His free arm snakes around her waist, tugging her closer and sending her a quick wink, "As you well know sweetcheeks."

Chuckling, she leans forward to press her lips briefly against his before poking him firmly between the shoulder blades in retaliation, "Not, what I meant DiNozzo."

His exaggerated "oof" dissolves the moment in laughter, and she settles against the mattress once more, fingertips tracing distracted lines against his back as another memory floats through her thoughts.

"You seem to have recovered from your lifelong fear of children at least," she offers after a moment, rolling onto her side toward him.

Green eyes crinkle around the corners as a lazy grin flits across his features, "Yeah, I suppose rugrats seem a little less terrifying year after year." His face turns pensive suddenly, eyes swirling with a myriad of emotions as his hand travels from her back to cup her cheek. "In fact," his thumb smooths across her cheek gently, gaze focuses on her meaningfully, "sometimes the idea of certain kids seems pretty great."

His meaning hits her hard in the chest, and she breathes in a gasp of air as she stares at him, stunned. He sends her a small, sheepish smile, eyes scanning her features worriedly, as though he's afraid he's gone and said too much--brought up the topic they never seemed to touch before she was ready. Her heart hammers erratically, and she waits for the panic to set in. Waits for the onslaught of terror and inadequacy the idea of children has always wrought within her; for the voice in her head that tells her she will never be good enough to deserve this. But it never comes. Instead all she can see are soft chocolate curls, and mini hazel-green eyes, and laughter. And happiness, a lot of happiness. She swallows hard against a sudden lump in her throat.

She doesn't know when she got so lucky. She doesn't know how they've both managed to heal each other--how they've finally found to courage to feel deserving.

All she knows she's never letting go.

Grinning, she runs her hand along his cheek, leaning forward to catch his surprised lips in an intense kiss. Pulling back to meet his gaze, she traces her fingers along his jaw as his eyes try to decipher the meaning behind her reaction.

"Maybe we should get a puppy," she muses abruptly, and his eyebrows raise in confusion, "They are supposed to be good practice, no?"

His answering grin is ecstatic as her meaning finally catches up to him, and lips meet hers fervently as they seek to convey every sentiment at once--elation, love, nervousness, excitement.

Happiness.

She responds eagerly to his kiss, tongue begging entrance to his mouth with a soft flick, hands shifting to the short strands of his hair, pulling him closer as heat flares between them and makes her pulse pound. He twists onto his side and slides both arms around her, fingers running down her back to grasp her hips, rolling her beneath him. It occurs to her that maybe they should discuss this more; that usually these types of conversations required more talking, more discussion. Then his hands slide up her thighs, bunching the fabric of her dress as his hands smooth over her stomach and her thoughts scatter as she digs her nails into his shoulders. Talking could wait until tomorrow.

They had always communicated better without words anyway.

His lips leave hers to trail across her jaw, "I don't know," he continues suddenly, voice low and gravelly against her skin, " I can think of other ways for us to practice." His hands inch higher against her torso, and it takes her nearly a full minute to remember what they had been talking about before.

"I thought you were tired?" she breathes, her retort more breathy than the tease she intended. A small moan escapes her as his lips finds the spot below her ear that sends a tiny tremor through her.

His lips travel lower, teeth grazing her collarbone before he pulls back to give her a wolfish grin, "What can I say sweetcheeks? You have a healing effect on me."

She arches an incredulous eyebrow at his remark and fixes him with a mischievous smirk, "Oh really?" Bending her knee against his hip, she hooks a foot around his thigh and flips them, chucking lightly at his mild surprise before grinding against him slowly, drawing a moan from them both.

"Very." he rasps, hands sliding up her body, pulling her flat against his chest. His lips become distracted by hers, and she tugs at the buttons on his shirt--the man was wearing far too many clothes.

"Besides," he murmurs vaguely, lips brushing against hers in-between words, "practice makes perfect."

Nine months later as she cradles their newborn daughter in her arms, she has to agree that it most definitely does.

#ncis #tiva #justtellher fanfiction #tiva fanfiction #this is what happens when I see all of those gifs and baby images on my dash #i just want to write all the things #this gif was too perfect not to write something for #and somehow the muse managed to get both babies and erm other things cough sexytimes cough #in the same little ficlet #i don't even know how that happened just from this gif

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justtellher · 11 years

Text

Divergent -- A Tony/Ziva fanfic

These are the stories we make. The tales of how choices write and seal our fate.

For all my lovely followers. Inspired by some spoilers for 11x01/11x02. My muse's way of dealing with denial. As usual I own nothing. <3

***

"I'm fighting for you, Ziva."

"I know."

The Israeli air is hot, stale, and stifling; the same stagnant breeze she remembers from four years prior. His impending departure claws at her chest in the same way, rips open the same barely healed hole.

Only this time there is no anger to mask it, no rage to fill it in. Instead she pulls him closer; presses her face into his neck and feels her heart constrict tightly. The olive leaves around them rustle softly, and he breathes a heavy sigh, hands smoothing down her back. She clenches the back of his shirt with trembling fists; wishes she could climb inside him and forget everything.

Forget Fate's endless vendetta against them.

This wasn't the way anything was supposed to happen.

She tells herself he'll be safe this way. That this is the only way. She echoes her words to him back through her mind,"we will be okay." But the reality is that those words are a bold lie told by an all too brave facade, and deep down she doesn't know how to leave him, yet she doesn't know any other way to keep him alive. Suddenly she's beginning to understand why he came halfway around the world once to drag her to safety, and why she's about to run half a world away to ensure his.

Fate had a cruel sense of irony.

His hands slide to her face, warm calloused palms that she wishes would never leave, and then he pulls away just enough to press his forehead against hers gently. Forcing her eyes open, she blinks slowly at his thoughtful green expression. His gaze searches hers and thumbs smooth across her cheeks as he studies her face, an internal war going on just behind his eyes; as though he's trying to make a decision, trying to find the right words to say.

"Ziva," he begins softly, voice thick but determined, "I…" but suddenly she's terrified of his next words, petrified that the forthcoming syllables will dissolve what little strength she has left to keep him at a distance, to keep him safe. So instead she does the only thing she can think of and presses her lips against his.

Some words are not made for goodbyes.

His hand burrows into her hair; her tongue begs entrance at his lips, hands tugging the front of his shirt, pulling him ever closer as he deepens the kiss. It's frenzied, drugged, and desperate; his lips move against hers in a way that makes her head spin and her chest ache with longing. She can't seem to get enough of him, and yet can't seem to savor him slowly enough--like trying to fit a lifetime of kisses into a the span of a single one.

And it will never be enough.

Almost on cue, a jeep horn blares in the distance, causing them to spring apart on a gasp of air. Her contact is here to escort him to the airfield, away from Israel and the danger she poses, yet all he does is tighten his grip on her waist while she clings to his shoulders. It's so much a like one of his movies that she suddenly laughs, a loud peel of laughter that makes him look at her at though she has lost her last shred of sanity. Maybe she has.

"We are just like that movie," she says after a moment, snapping her fingers at him excitedly; happy to have anything to focus on besides the searing pain in her chest, besides the way her heart is currently tearing apart in tiny shreds. "You know that one with Rick and Isla and the cafe…or was it a nightclub?"

His eyes sparkle at her in the brightening morning light, amusement tinted with sadness, "Casablanca," he states finally.

"Yes!" she beams at him, and it's infectious, his lips spreading into an easy grin in return. Oh how she would miss his smile, "Exactly, except I am the one making you get on the plane."

A morose chuckle escapes him, "Yeah, I suppose we are sweetcheeks."

The aching sadness fills the air again, thick and overwhelming. Her fingers grip harder at his body--at this rate she's bound to have left bruises--while his eyes seek to memorize hers. The sunlight flits softly across his skin, catching beautifully in the green of his eyes, bringing out the soft flecks of gold in his hair. Her mind struggles to accept that this is most likely the last time she will ever see him again--the possibility seems unreal, remote.

The jeep horn beeps again, more loudly this time, declaring the too real reality she has to find a way to now accept.

"You have to go," she manages over the sudden lump in her throat, willing her fingers to release their grasp on him, to let him go. Her eyes burn and her vision blurs, and she blinks rapidly against the sensation as he nods his head stiffly and swallows hard.

"I know," he chokes out. His hands softly encompass her face, and she meets his watery gaze as tears of her own slide quietly down her cheeks. His lips are warm, soft; overwhelming as they try to convey everything at once and yet not enough.

"Here's looking at you kid," he says with the same crooked smile she has memorized from eight years past; Tony until the very end.

And then he is gone, and suddenly she is alone in the olive trees with nothing but the steady lament of the leaves in the wind and the ghost of him upon her lips.

It takes her a full hour to remember how to move.

***

He doesn't know how he makes through the next 6 hours.

The world passes in a blur; his actions on autopilot as his mind struggles to leave the quiet of the olive grove--struggles to leave her.

Jeep. Drive. Airfield. Documents. Cargo Plane. Jumpseat. Mindless joking with the pilots. Take-Off. It's not until they touch-down to refuel that he even registers the passing of time, the scratchy feeling behind his eyes informing him that he's spent the entire flight staring at the same square foot section of cargo plane wall catatonically. The pilot's voice comes over the radio, telling him that he might want to grab some food and stretch his legs--they'll be here for at least a few hours--so he dutifully forces his body into motion and into the regional airport's only terminal. He nearly loses it in the middle of the jet bridge with he finally sees a sign welcoming him to where they've landed. Fate is a sadistic bitch, he decides.

Welcome to Berlin

It takes an almost violent surge of will power to continue walking after that. Locating the nearest airport restaurant, he throws himself into the nearest chair with a desolate force that makes the waitress approach his table with a stern scowl. He manages to order a sandwich and a scotch, and then succeeds in picking at the sandwich and throwing the liquor back in one gulp. There's a knot in his stomach that won't go away, and his hand is half-way raised to order another drink when he drops it back to the table with a soft thud; because even getting wasted feels pointless right now.

He isn't sure there is a point to anything anymore if he's honest.

With a heavy sigh, he drops his head to his hands, elbows digging painfully into the hard metal table. He welcomes the feeling, anything to cut through the numbness that's permeated his every thought and movement, anything to distract from the dull ache in his chest. A group of German teenagers wander by, chatting animatedly, and his mind ponders their conversation, wonders what they could possibly be that excited about. Ziva would've known. Ziva.

A searing pain radiates through him as he tries to breathe.

His mind offers up countless images of her. Her tear-blurred eyes beneath the olive branches; the way the sun glanced off her skin and hair as they tried to never let go, only to have fate tear them apart; the softness of her lips, the way her body fit against his as they tried desperately to make up for the lost time they'd never have; the way she felt in his arms the last time they danced in Berlin, the way it felt to wake up next to her for the last two mornings after every truth had come tumbling off their lips. The way she looked the first time he'd ever met her, hair pulled back in that purple scarf and a smirk upon her lips--how a part of him had known even then. The way she'd looked as he left her alone in that wretched olive grove, a movie quote his parting line--the last movie they'd ever watched together, laughing softly on his couch, jobless but content, before this whole death-bent terrorist nightmare began. The way she'd clung to him before she told him to leave her; the last glance of her he'd ever get.

Funny, how naive he had been to think once that the only way he'd leave her again was through death.

Rubbing his palms roughly against eyes, he wills himself to snap out of it. He had to figure out a way to move past this; he had duties, responsibilities, a terrorist to catch. A rush of air leaves him in realization, his hands fall from his face. Only there wasn't any duty--he still didn't have his job back; there wasn't any responsibility--he's pretty sure not even a goldfish awaits him at home anymore after he left to search for his partner in a rush of bags and tickets a few weeks back; there wasn't even a terrorist to catch--the trail had gone cold the minute Ziva had fled the country. There was nothing to do now but wait; wait to see if Ziva could run far and fast enough that their killer would slip up and create a new trail of evidence.

Wait to see if Fate would give him his life back.

A debilitating weight settles over him; numbness seeps into his muscles, despondency burrows into his bones. He stares blankly at the half eaten sandwich in front of him, despair pitting in his stomach, making him nauseous. He'd always been a man of action; someone who always had some plan or another going in the background, even if was just a vague notion. But now? What the hell was he supposed to do now? His mind searches, grasping at possibilities, but they all seem dulled notions of empty beds, lonely apartments, and desolate cases; paltry substitutes.

Because she always had been the plan before now.

Looking around the airport, he briefly considers what life would be like if he just decided to stay right here; be like Tom Hanks in The Terminal, live off the mediocre beer and bratwursts of Berlin's smallest airport. For a moment, it doesn't seem like such a bad idea; at least he might have a chance to see her if she ever came through this way. A melancholy chuckle escapes his lips as he digs out his wallet and drops what he thinks might be enough American bills on the table to cover the tab; of course, Ziva would kill him if she ever ran into him living like a bum in the middle of an airport; would tell him to stop sulking and go shave; crinkle her nose at him, mess up her idioms horribly. The ache in his chest intensifies with a sharp stab.

God, missing her was going to kill him slowly.

With a small groan, he wanders listlessly to the nearest empty terminal bench and sinks onto it heavily. Clearly someone else was going to have to do the planning for now; he was out of ideas. Pulling out his phone, he presses the familiar name on the screen; the one person who was never without a plan. LIfting the phone to his ear, he listens as the international dial tone clicks through.

"DiNozzo?" the gruff voice on the other end of the line sounds surprised, and Tony's brow furrows. Strange, Gibbs was bound to be many things when answering a phone call, angry, surly, grumpy, did he mention angry? Surprised usually wasn't one of them.

"Hey boss," he forces his voice into a chipper tone, "How's the weather?"

Gibbs' answering sigh tells him he's not buying a second of it, "Where are you Tony?"

He swallows hard, continues the charade. It's the only thing holding him together at this point. "Berlin; lovely this time of year you know."

"And Ziva?"

Damn, the man knew how to hit hard and fast. "Israel," he almost chokes on the word, "gotta work on her tan. Says D.C. was making her too pale."

"Anthony…," and yeah he gets it. Knows this has hit Gibbs hard too; ever since they realized that bringing her back now would be impossible.

Doesn't make him any less angry though.

"So I'm just wondering," he plows through whatever platitude their silver-haired leader had been about to expound, "what the next step of the plan is now?" His pulse beats erratic, and he feels maniacal, strung-out, belligerent. But hell at least it's feeling. "Cause you know, I found her like you said, and now I'm leaving her, like she said, and oh gosh darn, it looks like I left the rest of this fucked up playbook back at my newly bullet fung-shuied apartment!" A few people next to him shoot nervous glances.

"DiNozzo!" Gibbs' voice cuts through the phone, silencing his tirade. "Enough," and yeah, that's the only thing he's sure of anymore. That he's had enough.

Quiet settles over the line; both men lost in thought.

Finally, his stoic boss breaks the silence, "I'm not gonna tell you what to do, DiNozzo." Funny, that had never been the case before.

Gibbs continues, "but, you will be reinstated back in D.C. If that's what you want." What he wanted? He stifles a scream of frustration. Since when had it ever been about what he wanted?

All he had wanted was her for some time now.

He gives a doleful chuckle, "Isn't exactly a choice is it boss? That's what I'm supposed to do isn't it? Come home, go to work, catch the bad guys, chase everything with a skirt?"

All the things the world expects him to do.

Gibbs sighs heavily, "Ever think ya might stop doing everything just because of supposed to?"

"Nah," he replies sardonically, "Thought I'd follow them right down to the basement with my bourbon. Been meaning to ask you how to start on my boat by the way."

A derisive laugh answers him. "Thought I told you not to be like me DiNozzo." Suddenly that conversation seems like a lifetime ago; back when he still had possibility and a plan.

He gives a small huff, the joking facade crumbles, "Yeah well, got some cups that are lookin' pretty shattered right now boss."

The silence lingers between them for so long, that he's almost beginning to wonder if the call accidentally got disconnected when he hears Gibbs reply,

"Rule #75."

His forehead scrunches in thought as he searches his Gibbs rule inventory and comes up blank. " 'Fraid I don't know that one."

Gibbs' laugh is cryptic, "Pretty sure you already do." There's a brief pause, "Be your own man, DiNozzo."

And then the line really does go dead.

He stares blankly at the phone in front of him, attempting to process what had just happened. Leave it to Gibbs to be vague at a moment of crisis.

Pretty sure you already do.

That was just it; he knew nothing anymore. The only thing he had figured out was that he wanted her. Wanted to wake up next to her, wanted to love her, wanted to come home to her. Yet that was the one thing fate had taken away. The one route that had been burned to the ground. With a sudden hatred toward the world, he drags himself to his feet and begins to trudge toward the cargo plane area. Gibbs was wrong, there was no choice; there was only supposed to now, only orders to keep him going. He doesn't know why he's surprised really; the universe had never been very keen on keeping his promises to him. The entrance to the jet bridge looms nearer, and with every step he feels trepidation and anguish burrow deeper in his chest, twist his stomach with the agonizing feeling of one horribly lost and headed in the wrong direction again.

But then, every step away from her had always been wrong.

He stills at the edge of the jet bridge, takes a determined breath. This was it; back home to pick up the pieces and throw them away. He's done collecting fragile glass, and all trying to fit both cups together does is cause one to break. He takes a shaky step forward, feels the dread in his stomach grow. Deja vu smacks him square in the chest, an onslaught of memories. Come home with me, Ziva. His words to her echo in his mind. Suddenly everything clicks and makes perfect sense.

He thinks he's never gotten words more wrong.

Pivoting on his heel, he bounds back up the jet bridge with a renewed sense of urgency. He sees the choice now, the divergent paths spreading out before him clear and steady. One he's already been down before, four years prior; it involves getting on a plane without her; growing into old age bitter, broken, and with a scarred liver, hoping she would show up at his doorstep again; never knowing what happened to her; losing himself in the rage and agony if he ever realizes something did. Not that he's sure he'd even make it to that point this time. Four years ago, he'd had anger and misunderstanding to keep him going.

Four years ago, he hadn't yet tried to live without her.

With a skid, he exits the ramp and pauses in the central concourse of the terminal, eyes scanning the signs above him frantically. The other path is right there now, a shining small thread that he'd almost missed because he thought Fate had gotten between them again. It's a rocky, small possibility, with a sure drop off a cliff and into a terrorist's sniper range if they stumble, and pain and heartache are surely lurking in its shadows; but it's oh so beautifully filled with soft curls, chocolate brown-eyes, butchered idioms, and her for as far as it will carry him. His eyes find the sign they were looking for, International Airport Transfer --->, and he takes off down the corridor. Screw Fate. He's had enough of being pushed around by the circumstance and obstacles between them.

This is the only path that feels right.

Pulling out his phone again, he pushes another name and waits for the answering voice as he bolts toward the shuttle bus under the transfers sign.

"Tony?" McGee's voice fills the line.

"Tim," he cuts in determined, slightly out of breath, "I need a flight.." Dying of old age was overrated anyway.

And he's finally coming home.

***

She can't bring herself to move locations just yet.

Once she finally makes it back to the small house she's been hiding out in, she stands around listlessly, willing herself to pack up and move out. The only way to keep them safe is for her to keep moving, keep on going and hope to flush this terrorist out of his hole. But she can't bring herself to pick up the bags, can't bring herself to wipe away the evidence of her stay and leave. Everything is still too raw, too fresh.

Everything still reminds her of him.

In a moment of weakness, she tells herself she'll leave first thing in the morning, that she can have twenty-four hours to mourn the shattered illusion. So she sits in the heavy silence of the living room, allows the memories to surround her. The hushed tones, whispered adorations. The perfect friction of his skin against hers, the way his lips where like her salvation and destruction all at once. The way it felt to wake up next to him in their little bubble of willful ignorance over the last days.

The way it felt to find happiness.

She takes to tidying the small space endlessly in an effort not to start crying. His presence is everywhere, and she rearranges and reorganizes in a determined battle against the tightness in her stomach, the empty hollow thud in her chest.

Because if the tears come, she doesn't know how she'll ever stop them.

Her quiet soft movements become harsh, forceful almost rage-filled precision as the day wears on. Her anger at the universe, at life, at herself manifests in the vehement way she scrubs at the countertops, the ruthless manner in which she straightens the throw on the back of the couch.

She tries to beat his memory by forced exhaustion.

Finally she tires, and wrapping herself up in sheets that still smell of him, she tries to will herself to sleep, to rest. Because tomorrow she has to move forward, move onward.

Move past happiness.

But the bed feels too big without him, and his scent in the pillows is no substitute for the feel of his arms around her, chest pressed against her back. Hours pass as she tosses, restless, a constant lump in the back of her throat and burning eyes pressed firmly shut. Funny how it took her so little time to get addicted to sleeping next to him.

The clock reads 3 am when she flings herself from the bed with an annoyed huff; irritated with herself, with her selfish need for him. Mentally berating herself, she begins to pack bags haphazardly, reasoning that if she can't sleep she might as well get ready to head out, to find a new place to hide, distract herself from the pain by formulating a detailed plan to lure this madman to face her. She throws clothing into a duffel and wrenches the zipper closed against the anguish pitted in her stomach. Her mind is frazzled, exhausted, and she doesn't even need to actively plan really; she's done this all before.

All she really needs is him.

With a frustrated groan she makes her way to the living room to gather her passports and a stack of currency. She had to stop being so childish now. Tony was safe; it had to be this way; she had to push forward alone, it was the way her world had always come around to in the end. Maybe in a different lifetime, fate would have been kinder.

Maybe in a different lifetime she wouldn't need to atone for so many sins.

A sudden pounding at the door, snaps her from her reverie and has her reaching for the Sig on the desk as she mentally flips through possible scenarios; none of them entailing anyone knocking at her door blatantly. She idly muses that perhaps her killer has suddenly developed a need for polite manners as she inches stealthily toward the door and glances through the small peephole there. The person standing on the other side makes her heart pound and her mind reel in disbelief, even as she drops the gun on the nearest table and throws open the door.

"Tony?…" and surely she's hallucinating right now because there he is in front of her not eighteen hours after he left, fierce and determined. Her throat closes up slightly, her heartbeat strays erratically.

She missed him more in eighteen hours than she cares to admit.

"Screw Casablanca," the words come out a low growl as he pushes past her and into the small living space. Stunned, she somehow manages to close the door behind him before turning to stare at him perplexedly, her mind unable to process his sudden reappearance in her life.

"What…" she stutters thickly, trying to follow the strange opening line. Perhaps she actually fell asleep and is only dreaming; she digs her fingernails into her palm hard, pain shoots up her right arm. He is real, alive, and standing in front of her again.

She doesn't know whether to be elated or terrified.

"I'm not running anymore Ziva," he's stepping forward to cup her face in his hands, thumbs rubbing reverently across her cheekbones, stealing her breath. She stares at him in wonder, frozen. "I'm staying right with you every step, until we either catch this bastard or get killed trying." His words cut through her, a beautiful disarray of her happiest dreams and most terrifying fears.

The ones who get too close always end up dead.

Reality snaps back into place as panic floods through her, "No," she chokes out, "No, Tony you cannot do this." With a hard shove to his chest she breaks free of his grasp, walking briskly toward the desk, grabbing the waiting cell phone there and flipping through the contacts, trying to find anyone she could call in a favor with at this hour. Anyone to drag her crazed partner to safety.

"Ziva, stop." the phone is out of her hands and lands with a small thud across the room, and she chides herself for not seeing that one coming. She stares up at him incredulously, furious stare meeting his resolved one.

"You're insane," she grits out, flinging her hands out exasperatedly, "Tony you cannot be serious!"

"No, insane was getting on that plane this morning," his voice grows insistant, more resolute; his brow furrowed, stubbornness set in his features. "This. This is the first thing that's felt right since this whole mess began."

"No, you have to go back Tony," she raises her voice to match his, brown eyes pleading reason with his, "there is your career to continue, your apartment, your life…"

He cuts her off with a impassioned shake of his head, "All pointless bullshit if you don't have anyone to share it with Ziva and you know it."

"Tony you have to go home!" she's shouting now.

"I am home!" His face is sincere, green eyes boring into her own with so much openness and love as she struggles to fathom his words. She wasn't someone to make a home in.

All she's ever been is a death warrant.

"You're an idiot," she spats grimly, spinning away from him and crossing the room to retrieve the discarded phone.

"So they tell me," he returns scathingly, following quickly after her and grabbing her arm, forcing her to turn and face him again. His voice lowers, his eyes steadfast,"But I'm not going to let you do this alone, Ziva."

You jeopardized your entire career, and for what?

For you.

She rips her hand from his grip, "So what Tony, you will die with me out here?," she feels hysterical, out of control, "Shot down by some crazy terrorist determined to execute me for my sins?" her mind conjures of up images of his blood on the dirt, on her hands, and suddenly she can't stand still without falling apart. "All because you will not listen to reason and go back to D.C? You have to leave me alone, Tony; all that follows me out here now is death."

So you will die with me.

"You already asked me that once, you know" his voice is softer now, head tilted sideways as he remembers. The memory takes all of the fight out of her, stops her pacing mid-step. He meets her terrified gaze determinedly, fiercely stepping toward her, grasping her shoulders with such a gentle certainty that it makes her gasp. His eyes are raw, and the emotion she finds there tells her soul his answer before the words leave his mouth.

Tony, why are you here?

"Yes, " his voice is so low she almost misses it; however, the unwavering set of his features leave her with no doubt, "Yes Ziva, I will die with you, if that's what it takes." His voice grows louder, firmer; more resolved, "And I will kill with you, steal with you, and fight with you. I will change names, and passports, and countries with you so many times it will make that DiCaprio movie, Catch Me If You Can, look simple," his grip on her shoulders tightens "I will run through every goddamn desert and jungle you want to lead me through, and I will do whatever it takes to make this ridiculous nightmare end and get us both back to DC,"

He takes a deep, steadying breath. Her eyes burn, a retort dies on her lips as he continues; his voice an urgent reverence, "But the one thing I will never do again is leave you. Tried that already. Couldn't do it."

Couldn't live without you, I guess.

Something inside her shatters and breaks.

With a strangled sob, she falls into him; tears roll down her cheeks as she lands against his chest, arms circling around his neck; her body shakes with another violent whimper, and she feels his arms wrap around her waist, taking the weight off of her useless legs; his lips press a soft kiss to her hair. And God, how she hates herself for this weakness; hates that he can make her feel so safe. Because she should be pushing him away right now, telling him no again; the solider inside her knows this. She should be doing anything and everything to push him out the door, back to safety, away from her, even breaking his heart if that's what it takes--she's done it before. But she can't bring herself to deliver anymore blows, can't bring herself to push him away with more force than reason; because she can't break his heart anymore with out breaking her own.

Because she can't live without him either.

Her tears subside after a moment and she stays wrapped around him, buries her face in his neck and breathes deeply, sending a pang of longing through her chest. She doesn't know where to go from here or how to make him safe. All she knows is she's so tired of fighting this, of needing him and keeping her distance.

Of trying to be so damn strong.

"You know I am more than capable of going on the run Ziva," his lips brush against her ear as he whispers fervent words, sending a shudder down her spine, "You know we're better together than apart," and yes a small part of her knows this is all irrational; that they will have more chance together in ending this; that the images terrorizing her mind are just that, images.

Yet she's never had so much to lose.

He places a gentle kiss below her ear before continuing, words that shatter her heart and mend in it in one, "You don't have to do this alone anymore, and I am not going anywhere."

At lo levad. You are not alone.

And those are the hardest words to accept; the hardest to learn. Because it means she has to give up some control to the universe, has to loosen her grip on the reigns and trust someone else to steer. It means she can't protect him all the time; means she has to give up this notion that by not loving him he will somehow stay safe, or at least not destroy her when he doesn't.

Because she's been in love with him for so long, and she's pretty sure his loss would destroy her either way.

"I can't lose you, Tony," her words are muffled against his skin, but the way he tenses slightly at the admission tells her he heard them.

"Seems like we've both got pretty damn good reasons to keep each other alive then." He pulls back slightly to meet her gaze, eyes rimmed red in a mirror of hers. She lets her forehead rest against his, unable to stop one last attempt to reason, once last attempt to push him to safety.

"I never asked you to take on my sins, Tony. I never wanted to bring you into all of this danger."

He eyes sparkle at her in response, a half-grin on his lips, as though he can't believe the universe hasn't yet let her in on this answer. His hands move to her face, "Sweetheart, I'm your partner; you never had a choice."

Out of everyone in the world who could have found me. It had to be you.

You should have left me alone.

Okay. Tried. Couldn't.

She understands in a rush of clarity.

The choice to protect him, to leave him unburdened and unharmed had always been an illusion, a fantasy--it had never been hers to begin with. The pieces click into place; Fate's grand pattern falls around them, exposed. She could run, try to shield him from herself, and he would always choose to follow. The only question now was whether to keep running, let destiny pick them off one by one, or to finally turn around and stop; to stand and fight; to love him. In the end, it's a much easier choice that she imagined.

And she is so very tired of running.

She nods against his hands, her thoughts suddenly crisp and clear, "We will have to move first thing in the morning. And you will need a jacket; Moscow is cold even at this time of year."

His mouth automatically opens to protest what he is sure is her rebuttal, and then her words catch up with him. His smile takes her breath away, his eyes swirl with so many emotions she can't register them all.

She wonders why it took her so long to realize how easily he said I love you with his eyes.

He frowns now slightly, gaze suddenly probing, "You're not gonna run off in the middle of the night are you? Cause Ziva, I swear if you do…," but she silences him with her mouth, lips gentle but firm, attempting to reassure him without words--that's she's not going anywhere.

She's fighting for him.

"No," she says finally, breaking the kiss and sliding her hands to his face, fingertips smoothing affectionate lines against his skin. "No, Tony. I will not leave you."

Tried. Couldn't.

His answering grin is so wildly happy that she feels the tension and fear dissipate from her chest. None of this will be easy--he circles his arms around her waist and pulls her firmly against him--and they both could end up dead tomorrow; and god, she doesn't know how she is going to continue if he gets hurt or killed because of this. Shuddering softly at the thought, she buries her face in his chest; he is warm and alive, his heartbeat a steady thump against her ear. His forehead drops to her neck, lips pressing a light kiss to her skin with a gentle affection that only strengthens her resolve. Because god how she will fight for this now, how she will fight to keep him safe, to get get them home.

To have something permanent in spite of everything Fate throws at them.

After a moment he breaks the silence, lifting his head to place a soft kiss against her cheek that makes her chest warm. "Good," he pulls back to give her a sideways grin, eyes sparkling mischievously. She had missed his easy-going amusement these last weeks.

"Cause you know, I had McGee lo-jack you with one of those transponder things years ago, so you're not gonna really get that far."

Her indignant gasp and subsequent jab to his ribs are a reflex that makes him release a loud "Oof."

"Joking, ninja, joking" he wheezes dramatically, holding his hands up in surrender.

She laughs, the first carefree sound in months, and he cradles her smile with his hands. Her lips meet his.

He tastes like coming home.

***

Years later he figures out what the rule actually meant.

It's scrawled in the familiar chicken scratch of his taciturn boss; stuffed inside a little envelope that he hands to Tony with a wordless smile as he makes his way through the door. Arms full of four wooden frames.

"Where d'ya want this Ziver?"

Ziva gives him a warm smile, gently handing Tony the sleeping infant in her arms before reaching forward to grab the nearest frame from the silver-haired ex-Marine, leading him from the room.

"I think the crib should go right in here..."

He stuffs the note in his pocket, focuses on his dozing daughter; amazed at how she can sleep through so much noise undisturbed, at how her soft curls already resemble her mothers, at how many little details of him and Ziva he can already see in her--the calendar on the wall catches his attention.

At how much can happen in three short years.

It's not until later that night that he remembers it, leaning gently over his wife in order to retrieve the now slightly crumpled piece of paper from his jeans from the floor beside their bed. Beside him, Ziva lets out a soft snore and curls against his side; he gives a quiet chuckle, wraps an arm around her waist contentedly while unwrapping the note with the other.

Rule #75: Sometimes the only way forward is to go back.

Knew you'd figure it out eventually DiNozzo.

Grinning, he lays the note on the night table and turns to wrap himself around Ziva fully, vaguely wondering just how many rules Gibbs had written down throughout his house and if they'd ever learn them all. Pressing a soft kiss to his wife's forehead, he ponders the note again. Gibbs had been right that day; he had already known that rule; already known what he needed to do.

Already known that she had been his path all along.

Closing his eyes, he lays in the darkness; listens to the steady breathing of the woman beside him, the other steady little breaths coming through the baby monitor, and his chest constricts acutely in awareness. He sends a thankful prayer out to the universe, suddenly so grateful for the thousands of little moments that have lead them exactly to this place, right here; for the moments of perfect clarity granted in airport gateways.

He's never made a better decision. They've never fought harder to stay and live. He feels sleep begin to claim him; Ziva gives a gentle hum of contentment against his throat.

Maybe happiness was in Fate's cards for them after all.

#ncis #tiva #tiva fanfiction #justtellher fanfiction #this is the only way my mind can deal with this #so hear it is #my new head canon

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justtellher · 11 years

Photo

She chuckles as she watches the scene in front of her; the nearly empty rink echoing with the small clicks of little ice skates against the shiny frozen surface. Squeals and giggles filter over to her spot along the railing.

"Faster, Daddy, faster!" their daughter shouts as her partner struggles to hold onto her squirming form, as the three-year-old attempts to march, not skate, across the ice.

With a snicker, Ziva whips out her phone to snap a quick picture of the comedy playing out in front of her. She had warned Tony that it was probably too soon to teach their daughter the nuanced movements of ice skating. However, his intense enthusiasm for the winter sport had quickly caught on with their curly-haired mini-me, and soon Ziva had found herself tugging on ice skates and bundling up to spend their MLK holiday at the ice rink.

It was hard to say no to two identical sets of pouted lips and puppy eyes.

"You gotta glide, sweetheart. You can't just walk against the ice," Tony's instructions are laced with laughter as he attempts to explain the motion to their cackling toddler. Bemused she watches as Aliza takes a few more marching steps against the ice before promptly plopping onto the ice and declaring decidedly, "All done!" The action forces her partner to scoop her quickly off the ice lest he crash into her.

Soft giggles fill the air as they whisper back and forth to each other, and she narrows her gaze nervously as Tony sits the grinning little girl against his hip and skates over toward her. She doesn't quite like where their thoughts are going. After all, there is a perfectly good reason she is over here clutching the railing. While her husband may move with an uncanny and enviable grace against the ice, Ziva grew up in a desert, and even after eleven years in this country, she and ice are still not on very good terms.

Nope she is perfectly happy against the railing thank you very much.

Tony glides to a stop in front of her, and a flushed and grinning Aliza leans over to plant a kiss on her cheek.

"We came to gets you, Ima!" she exclaims, throwing her arms in the air emphatically. Chuckling, Ziva adjusts her daughter's hat, turned askew from her exuberant attempts to skate.

"So I see, tateleh," she smoothes her thumb against Aliza's chilled cheek affectionately.

"Ready to stop clinging to the wall, sweetcheeks?" Tony's grin is infectious, and she finds her resolve crumbling despite her nerves.

"I'm not sure that is a good idea," she begins uncertainly, clutching firmly at the railing beside her.

"Don'ts worries, Daddy'll protects you from the ice," Aliza declares faithfully, and Ziva shoots Tony a small look of fear mixed with incredulity. She doesn't quite possess their daughter's blind faith; ice is still slippery and she is still uncoordinated in skates, Anthony DiNozzo or not.

Two sets of pleading hazel-green eyes bore into hers, effectively fracturing her resolution, and she gives in with a small nod of her head. Aliza cheers, and Tony reaches over to gently take her hand, pulling her smoothly away from the safety of the wall. His calm gaze meets her own, and he gives her hand a small squeeze as he laces his fingers through hers,

"Don't worry, ninja, I've got you." The assured tone in his voice calms her queasy stomach slightly even as her legs still shake with the effort of staying upright, but his hand keeps her steady, and she finds the uneasiness settle with each passing moment.

Maybe she has some blind faith after all.

They begin to make their way slowly around the rink, Ziva attempting to mimic Tony's motions, while Aliza commands authoritatively from her perch on Tony's hip,

"It's 'imple, Ima. All you gotsa do is glide."

#ncis #tiva #tiva fanfiction #justtellher fanfiction #this is just fluff pure and simple #I wanted some happy thoughts for Ziva after so much pain #and to warm my brain back up so I'll actually go write another chapter of Aubade like I've been meaning to for forever #also not my gif just borrowing it for this little ficlet #also happy MLK day!#also I know this gif is from bryant park but I'm pretending it's in DC #okay? okay

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justtellher · 11 years

Text

Saudade - A Ziva/Tali Ficlet

Some losses never fade. Some questions she never could answer, until the end. Some debts would never be repaid. A story of Ziva and Tali, of death and fate.

Next to it, she feels like Death slinking past through the shadows.

Come to the rally Ziva! Do something real for peace!

Tali’s voice echoes in her mind, and she gives her head a firm shake to rid her thoughts of yesterday’s argument. She couldn’t dwell on the shouts of her naïve little sister. Tali, who would have everyone to believe that a rally would change the world, make it safe. She reaches the door of 3B with an angered determination.

Tali was wrong, only the work before her now would keep them truly safe at night.

Death was the only way to stop the bombs.

***

She stomps across the busy Haifa market, pulling her backpack tight against her shoulders as she elbows her way through the crowd. She just had to make it on the bus before Ima realized she was gone. Rivka David would not be please to know of her youngest daughter’s plans to attend the Palestinian Peace Rally outside the Technion today.

But then, she’s not so sure any of her Mossad-driven family would know what to do with real peace. After all, their version of peace was enforced with guns and a superior weapons stockpile that deterred the enemy.

You cannot be serious about this Tali! These talks never come to anything! Everyone knows they are just making targets of themselves in the streets!

With a roll of her eyes, she pushes on determinedly toward bus stop at the end of the market. Ziva especially did not understand. To Ziva, life was about duty and service, everything in the name of Israel. That was what made her their father’s favorite. She reaches the bus stop and collapses onto the bench next to it with a bitter huff of air, her sister’s words ringing still in her mind.

These talks never come to anything.

Ziva was wrong; peace for Israel was never going to come from weapons and fear.

Words were all the hope they had left.

***

She hesitates before the rough-hewn wooden door, hand raised hesitantly to knock, stomach churning nervously. The Israeli Defense Forces had trained her in combat, in how to take life amidst gunfire and chaos. But this, this is not chaos. This is calculated and ordered, up-close and silent. Mossad had honed her skills and prepared her for this moment, and yet still the uncertainty claws at her chest, causes her pulse to pound sporadically. Suddenly, she isn’t sure she’s ready for this.

But are you willing to pay the price for this life, akhot?

Her sister’s words to her that morning flit again through her mind, a final plea with her in the stiff, muggy building’s air. She grits her teeth, raps her knuckles against the door.

She isn’t a child anymore.

Philosophy was a question for the academics. For schoolchildren like Tali, still full of naiveté.

She did not have time to debate the price of a life.

***

The sun feels blistering against her skin, forces people to scurry across the bus platform and through the market at a clipped rate, eager to flee the oppressive July heat. Sweat gathers against her brow, and she digs in her backpack for a hair-tie to pull her long brown hair off her neck. Maybe she really didn’t want to stand in this intense heat all day—rally or not. The thought of her cool, air-conditioned home only 15 minutes away beckons to her. She feels her resolve melting in the heat.

Just wait until you do your service Tali, then you will understand what the world is really like.

I’m not joining the Army, Ziva! I’m not fighting this pointless war!

Pointless Tali, really! You think that the survival of our nation is pointless?! Tell me what shall you do, what shall you do when there is no more music, no more opera houses. What shall you do then, when they are all destroyed because of this “pointless war”! The work I do, that Abba and Ari do? Is so that you can still have your dreams!

Well then, maybe my dreams are pointless too! They are not worth the price!

She scuffs her sneaker against the ground grimly, wiping at the fine sheen of perspiration along her forehead. She and Ziva almost never fought, Abba had always called them his צמד חמד--tsemed chemed--his pair. Although lately, the two of them had felt less like a pair and more like opposing ends of a magnet.

Maybe it was just growing pains. Maybe they were simply stretching their boundaries, and colliding with each other’s in the process. Either way she hoped things would right themselves soon. She missed their easy interaction.

The bus pulls to a stuttering stop in front of the platform; she stands slowly, digging a hand into the pocket of her shorts to search for loose change for the bus fare.

Then again, maybe hoping to reconcile the differences between sisters was as pointless as hoping words or fighting alone would stop this war.

***

A young man, not much older than her opens the door at the second knock, and for a moment, his face catches her off-guard; smiling eyes, a soft jowl, and an easy stance. Only the small scar on his chin gives him away as her target.

Funny, he looked so much harsher in the dossier photos.

He's fixing her with a questioning stare now, and she recovers on the next beat with a quick mental shake. She had to pull herself together. Even evil men could have kind eyes.

"Al Salamu Aleykom,” she greets the man, adjusting her hijab shyly, "I was hoping to use your phone?" A demure flick of her gaze upward tells her he suspects nothing about her presence. "I'm visiting my cousin's down the hall, but their phone is out. You seem to be the only one on the hall home today."

He eyes her carefully, she bats a timid smile. One second, two seconds, three seconds--his face eases, “Of course, it is no problem.” He ushers her into the home.

She's always had a particular talent for disarming people's apprehensions.

Her stomach twists nervously as she follows him into the living space. Her knife feels leaden in her hands as she grabs it from her boot.

Children's laughter rings out from the next room, and she feels her resolve waver and shake. His parlor is homey, reminds her of her Aunt Nettie's in taste. A photograph of two little girls sets on the sofa table--reminds her that Abdul Ramani is human, that this is a life she is choosing to end--not just another training exercise. His back is still turned to her as he reaches for the phone; she could slip quietly back the way she came before he turned.

But are you willing to pay the price for this life, akhot?

And that's just it. The price for his life could be a thousand more lives saved. She had to do this. She couldn't take the chance that one life was worth more than many others.

She grips the knife firmly, tamps down the sick feeling in her stomach as she strides forward determinedly.

Someday Tali would understand what the price of a life truly meant.

She catches him just as he's about to turn toward her, slides her hand across his mouth as her other hand brings the knife to his throat swiftly.

The blade pulls smooth and silent, and something inside her seems to crack.

The world fades out in a rush of blood and blackness.

***

She notices him get off the bus as she makes her way across the platform to board. A line forms as people begin to pay their fare, and still he stands there just off the queue, waiting for something, a small look of confusion and concentration flicking across his features.

She imagines maybe he got off a stop too early.

He's sweating heavily, his grey striped sweatshirt sticking against his skin, an unusual clothing choice for the oppressive July heat. The observation causes her stomach to twist lightly with suspicion, but she gives herself a firm shake and steps forward in the line.

She shouldn't profile people like that. Their world would never know peace if they couldn't get past their mistrust of each other.

The line moves forward slowly. The boy fidgets on the platform. He doesn't seem much older than her.

She notices the wire then, sees the way he holds something firmly in his left hand.

With a gasp, she tries to back up, only to be pushed forward by the jostling crowd.

This could not be happening. Things like this were not supposed to happen. Suddenly, all she wants is to be home, away from this surreal cliché.

There will be no more talks of peace today. She has never imagined a more violent end to words.

She gives a hard push to break free from the bus line just as the boy steps forward, arm raised up determinedly.

She turns, a shout of warning on her lips. But it is too late.

The world disappears in flames and blackness.

***

The knife is still gripped tightly in her hand, a thin trickle of dark red blood on its edge, as her vision slowly clears and her breathing calms. Her legs have carried her to the cool confines of the stairwell on autopilot and at a run. The blade had done its work, and she had been as precise as they had taught her. But she couldn’t breathe as his body slid to the ground; didn’t need feel his pulse to know she had ended his life. Didn’t need to hear the screams of the two children as they discovered what had happened. So she had fled the room, running quickly down the hall and toward the staircase. Sitting now in the darkness, she feels ridiculous for her fear.

This was the way of the world; there was no use dwelling on the kind eyes of enemies or the loss of children. Enough of their own had lost fathers and mothers to men like him.

Still his face seems branded into her mind; his children’s laughter seems to echo in her ears. Squeezing her eyes shut, she runs a shaky hand across her face, only to realize her cheeks are wet from tears.

With an exasperated whimper, she rubs her hands vigorously across her eyes; wrenches the soft black fabric of the hijab from her head and wipes the blade clean. Attempts to calm her mind in the methodical motions.

The knife clean, she shoves it viciously back into its cover and ties the black cloth securely around her belt, standing with a forceful determination to defy the unsteady feeling in her legs.

It was done, finished. She had done her duty, her job. There were now other responsibilities to attend to, evidence to erase. There was no more time for weakness.

Clenching her jaw, she forces the man’s face from her mind and heads toward the stairs resolutely. She would finish this, and head home to find Tali. Differences or not, the world was too short for silly fighting.

Her phone breaks the stairwell’s silence with a shrill ring.

She’ll always remember how the sound reminded her of laughing.

***

The Haifa police station is a maddening chaos of screaming witnesses, crying loved ones, and pushy reporters. Sweat trickles down the back of her neck as she makes her way to front desk, the small window air conditioners unable to cool the stifling air brought on by so much suffering in one place.

Her mother is inconsolable in a nearby chair; head between her hands as heavy sobs wrack her thin frame. The front desk secretary informs her they still need someone to identify the body, and Rivka David is in no condition to, so she accepts. It was better this way anyway; she has been around much more death.

A small, mouse-like police officer leads her to the morgue, rattling off a list of sympathies and details that she barely hears over the roaring in her ears. Hamas. Suicide bombing. A bus stop. It all seems like a vivid dream.

The officer pulls back the white sheet, and she bites back an anguished moan, unable to tear her eyes from the body in front her. Words seem impossible, her mouth feels dry and her tongue thick, but she manages to confirm the body’s identity and that she would like some privacy with a curt nod, and the woman leaves, closing the door behind her with a soft click that startles her from her trance.

With an unsteady hand, she smooths her fingers across her sister’s bloodied forehead in disbelief, runs her fingers down the unburnt side of her face gently. Tali’s eyes are closed gently, her mouth shut contentedly, but she knows it is all a placement done by coroners to make the dead seem at peace. However, the scarred skin along her sister’s face contrasts with the smooth skin she’s always known, shattering the illusion. This was no peaceful death, and she doubts even Tali, the angel among them all, died with her eyes closed and smile on her lips.

A glint of gold detracts her attention from the nightmare she is reimagining. Glancing down, she takes in the shimmering gold of Tali’s necklace—a Star of David just like her own, Abba’s birthday gift to them years ago, a pair for his tsemed chemed, his matching set.

Before she realizes what she is doing, she is reaching down and swapping Tali’s necklace for her own, refastening the clasps with a quick precision. Staring at her own necklace, now shining softly in the harsh fluorescent autopsy light, she lets out a shaky breath, the haziness clouding her vision clears slightly. It seems right that in death they should trade them, that they should keep some part of the other.

In death. The air in the mortuary room seems thick, almost stifling; her head feels fuzzy; her knees give out and she sinks heavily into the chair next to Tali. Gingerly picking up Tali’s still smooth hand, she attempts to make sense of the words.

“Oh Tali,” she whispers softly, holding her sister’s hand to her cheek, “akhot ktana…,” she presses a kiss to her skin, “my baby sister, I…” Suddenly, she falls silent. This morning, there were so many words to say.

Now there are none that matter.

***

Eli David shows up an hour later to find her in the same position. His face is pale but firm, and it serves to snap her out of her silent contemplation as she hurries over to him.

“Abba, I…” she begins, but he shoves a firm hand out to keep her from venturing closer.

“Malachi is on his way. There is still the matter of Rabani’s body to intercept and dispose of before the police investigate.” His determined gaze flickered from her to the body behind her, shoulders sagging almost imperceptibly before he squares himself with a grim determination. “Next time remember not leave the scene until the evidence has been cleared, Officer David. Mossad cannot afford such carelessness.”

She clenches her jaw, fighting against the burning lump in her throat. Apparently her father could not afford her emotions either. With a small nod, she makes her way toward the exit. It is clear her time here is over.

“Ziva…,” Eli’s voice stops her, breaks slightly on the last syllable of her name. She keeps her back turned toward the door; he wouldn’t want her to turn to him. “Will you be alright?”

Swallowing hard, she fights the tears that finally threaten to fall. “Ken,” she manages to grit out, “Ken.”

She is always alright, and he’s not really looking for another answer.

She flees from the room with a strangled gasp; throws herself up the stairs to the police station lobby and out onto the crowded Haifa street. Around her cars rush by and people’s voices fill the air; the world goes on. The sky is a brilliant hue of blue, and she closes her eyes against the brightness; concentrates on the still cool sensation of where Tali’s hand just was in hers.

Was. Past tense. Suddenly the world spins in realization.

She barely makes it to the nearby ally before emptying the contents of her stomach onto the sidewalk. The reality settles upon her, nestles firmly in her chest, and with a trembling hand she clutches at her sister’s necklace around her neck, letting out a choked sob. Anger and desperation mix with agony as she slides to the ground, furiously rubbing at her eyes in a failed attempt to stop the onslaught of her tears. But it’s no use; there is no way around this kind of pain.

But are you willing to pay the price for this life, akhot?

She should have given more thought to the price.

Some lives cost you everything.

***

The killing becomes easy after they bury Tali in the ground.

Bodies fall around her like paper, lifeless, white, and meaningless in her rage at the world. Fury gives her precision, overrides her questioning, her emotion; until one day it is all finally gone, leaving her in the middle of an Egyptian hotel room with a lifeless Iranian woman and a kill list she can’t remember one name on, only faces. She could never forget their faces.

It was her own she now had trouble recognizing in the mirror.

So she had fled, tried gain reprieve from her guilt by distancing herself from the bodies as a control officer. Tried to do more for peace as Tali had once wanted and less for bloodshed as a Liaison Officer for NCIS.

But Fate did not forget easily, and she felt death follow her, a ghost against her back, demanding retribution. A life for a life. Fate demanded that blood be repaid.

Her mother, Ari, Roy Sanders, and on. Death created a kill count to match her own.

Then Michael. It became easy to push everyone else away after his death out of hurt and anger. Fate used someone too close to accomplish its mission, blindsiding her with the betrayal. It was simple to walk alone into the desert after that, to force Death to follow her solely. It was better that way.

Even after everything, there were still some people left she couldn’t bear for Death to claim.

***

The taste of blood is in her mouth as she wakes again in the small cell, the smell of dirt and filth pungent in the dry desert air. With a wince she pulls herself into a seated position, unable to stop a small groan of pain from escaping as her ribs throb painfully at the change in position. Lifting a weakened hand, she rubs her neck tiredly, grimacing as her fingers graze the bruises left there by Saleem--the last remnants of Tali’s necklace, ripped from her too soon, much like the person it had originally belonged to. A wave of sadness cuts through the numb fatigue in her body.

Mossad would say that possessions are meaningless attachments.

Still, she wishes she could have held on to this one.

Leaning back against the cool wall with a weary sigh, she glances at the small scratches in the grey plaster marking her days here. Twenty-eight marks, almost a month.

Maybe she should stop counting.

Hell, after all, was infinite; the better to count your sins, and of those she had plenty. There was no more use to numbering her days. There would be no rescue from this; no one would follow her into this desert. She had made sure of that. She swallowed hard against the despair and anger that pitted in her stomach at the abandonment. She didn’t know why she had expected anything different.

Mossad had no use for broken things either.

But are you willing to pay the price of this life, akhot?

Her sister’s words echo softly in her mind. She hadn’t understood those words at the time; then, she had thought that prices only came in measurable sums—time, money, saved lives. Sweltering heat hits her skin from the thin wooden slats of the cell window, yet a shiver passes through her, a shadow creeps at the periphery of her vision. She understands now though.

The price was always written in blood. Repayment etched in the soul. And Death was looking for her final installment.

Closing her eyes, she takes a deep breath of the heavy desert air, and for a moment, they are all there in front of her again, faces blank, watching her, waiting. Acceptance fills her chest, deadens the pain of her current wounds. Tali stands before her, fifteen and beautiful, with a sad smile and hand outstretched.

She’s tired of owing debt.

The door to the cell squeaks open again; she hears the heavy gait of steel-toed boots cross the room, the tell-tale clink of heavy chain and the acrid scent of a just lit cigarette in the wearers hands. She keeps her eyes closed tight, holds all of their faces in her mind a moment more. Resignation seeps through her, numbs the fear inside her chest.

Death had been her profession. She breathes in another gulp of stale air.

Now, let dying be her penance.

#ncis #ziva david #ncis fanfiction #tali david #justtellher fanfiction #i don't really know where this came from #only that ziva speaking of tali in shell shock pt 2 put this idea in my head for some reason #and it demanded to be told

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justtellher · 12 years

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Taking Chances - A Tony/Ziva Ficlet

This little ficlet snuck up on me after watching those spoilers from GG at MIPCOM. Those two scenes with Tony and Ziva just wouldn't let me go until I wrote this. Warning: Spoilers if you haven't seen those clips.

She absolutely hates gathering bank records.

She’s been on hold for nearly twenty minutes, blaring elevator music extracting a slow torture on her patience, much like the man across the bullpen from her. He’s muttering off a list of names as he sorts through their victim’s phone records, and Ziva’s pretty sure it’s a list of every single woman he’s ever met.

“What about Jenna Bartowski, from accounting?” he asks suddenly, and she curses herself for getting involved in Tony’s quest to find a date for the concert he and McGee recently won tickets to in an inter-office raffle. Every name he lists sends flood of irrational irritation through her, puts a bitter taste in her mouth that tastes a whole lot like jealousy. Which is utterly ridiculous. She’s supposed to be helping her friend get back on his game as he calls it, not plotting the untimely demise of every person he names.

Maybe she needed to stop drinking so much coffee; clearly she was starting to lose it.

Forcing her mind back onto his suggestion, she scrunches her nose in distaste, “I thought you hated the way she speaks?” She waves her hand through the air, searching for the proper words, “Something about the way she ‘elongates her vowels,’ no?”

“Ah right,” he agrees with a small horrified shudder, “reminds me of Sarah Palin, blech.”

Rolling her eyes in response, she checks her watch for the tenth time in the last five minutes. She’s beginning to suspect the banker who placed her on hold has forgotten she exists, abandoning her to this sadistic, repetitive tune.

“You know, technically I should be asking you out,” he states nonchalantly, a light tease in his voice, “You did say the first woman I see.”

The words cause her to freeze, staring at him perplexedly as her mind struggles to process what just came out of her partner’s mouth. Her pulse roars in her ears, drowning out the never-ending loop of music in the phone receiver. Did Tony DiNozzo just allude to asking her on a date? Technically, she had told him to ask the first woman he saw that day, but she never intended for him to take her advice to heart. Panic settles in her chest; she doesn’t have a clue how to respond to this. He’s pushing at a boundary that they never discuss, no matter how much they may tease. Her mind feels clouded, making her feel out of control. So she does the only thing she can think of to reign in her traitorous emotions; she deflects.

“Cute,” she throws her head back with a laugh, giving him a teasing smile, “but you had your chance.”

The words are out before she has time to think about them, and they leave a strange taste in her mouth, making her feel even more bewildered. Because he’s not taking the bait like he normally would, falling back into their carefully constructed game with a laugh and a quick remark. Instead, he’s staring at her silently from across the room, green eyes filled with a mixture of emotions as his gaze probes hers, forehead scrunched slightly as though seriously considering her remark. She wonders vaguely if she somehow missed the moment they decided to stop dancing around each other.

“You two having a staring contest?” Gibbs barks as he barrels through the bullpen, causing them both to jump, “Need to interview the sister-in-law.” He sits heavily in his chair and takes a long swig of coffee, staring at them expectantly, “Well? Go on.”

His command breaks the moment, propelling them into a flurry of action. Tony pops out of his seat with a, “Sorry boss, on it boss,” as she quickly fumbles for her Sig and backpack before following after him. Tony shoots her a chagrined smile as they head to the elevator, and she returns it hesitantly, attempting to quell the uncertainty pooling in her stomach. He must have been joking earlier; she was reading too much into this.

Tomorrow, she was definitely switching to de-caf.

***

You had your chance.

He can’t stop mulling over her words as they interview the sister-in-law, the syllables running through his mind on repeat much like the broken AC/DC record he had as a teen. He wonders if she even realized what she said, or if like him, she had spoken without thought.

I should be asking you out

Not exactly his best move. One minute, he was mindlessly listing off women in the office that he might be able to convince to go to this last minute concert, occasionally becoming distracted by the way the sunlight caused his partner’s soft curls to shimmer, and the next minute, he’s obtusely asking out said partner in a moment of pure insanity, words slipping out of his mouth before he can stop them.

Her sentence plays over and over in his mind as they drive back to the Navy Yard, taking over his thoughts and stuttering his speech until Ziva eventually sighs in frustration and gives up on conversation with him all together. Each repetition of the scene causes his chest to tighten painfully, and disappointment to settle more firmly in his stomach.

He’s not sure what’s more insane actually: the fact that he asked her out or the fact that a part of him was hoping she might say yes. Because if he’s honest with himself, he’s been trying to work up the courage to ask her on a date since they were trapped in that damn elevator this past summer.

Her remark burns itself into his memory, fogs his senses, forms a despondent ache in his chest, and earns him two slaps from Gibbs over the course of the rest of the day as he stares off into space, dejectedly trying to make sense of her words.

You had your chance.

He feels like he’s been robbed of something, like there’s some grand moment he missed out on, where the universe was flashing a giant neon sign denoting his chance, and he missed it completely. He wants to demand a redo from fate, explain that it may have been his chance in the past, but he wasn’t ready yet. He hadn’t yet realized what he wanted from his life; hadn’t yet come to terms with her being what he needed. And now here he is, finally almost ready to admit to it, and he’s already missed his chance? It just didn’t seem fair.

His confusion drives him to lie awake that night, combing through his memories of her in great detail, trying to pinpoint the exact moment he should have been paying more attention. Normally, his intense obsession over a girl’s rejection would worry him. But then, he’s already done crazier things in the name of Ziva David.

The more he digs through his memory, the more he feels like an idiot because she’s absolutely right. He did already have his chance. In fact, he’s had multiple chances, and he’s ignored every single opportunity. He should have taken his chance trapped inside that elevator, could have hedged his bets and told her not to answer Ray’s call all those months ago; hell, he could have admitted it to her the very first day he met her—although admittedly that probably would have ended with a one night stand or with him in a hospital, maybe both.

You had your chance. God, Ziva deserved a medal for putting up with him ignoring her for this long; he’s had more chances than he deserved.

You had your chance. Suddenly, the words fully sink in, causing him to release an almost giddy chuckle of laughter in the darkness of his bedroom. Had your chance. Meaning at one point, Ziva had actually entertained the idea of him. At one time in the past, she had most likely had feelings for him. Recent memories float through his mind--the softness of her smiles as of late, the gentle, almost affectionate tone their banter had taken on over the past year-- and his grin widens. He has a feeling those feelings for him might just be there still.

Now all he needed to do was convince her he was worth one more chance.

***

She had to stop thinking about it.

Taking a small sip of her mint tea, she attempts to still her mind in the mid-morning quiet of the break room. She’d been unable to stop obsessing over Tony’s words yesterday, her mind replaying the scene on repeat, his suggestion, her response. With a frustrated sigh, she takes a larger gulp of her still hot tea, wincing as she scalds her tongue in the process. Honestly, she was being ridiculous. She responded perfectly normally to a blatant tease from her goofy partner. They were friends and co-workers; it’s not like she wanted more. Confusion rips through her chest, and she begins to wish it was possible to remove memories, wonders if pounding her head against the break room table would do.

She’s still arguing with herself when he finds her, cheesecake in hand. Flashing her a cheeky grin, he saunters over to where she sits. Her eyes follow him, throat suddenly dry as she swallows nervously. He’s wearing that blue polo again, the one that shows off his forearms nicely and makes her heart pound furiously in a manner far from platonic.

What was she saying about not wanting more again? Because God, she really was a terrible liar.

“Hey,” Tony begins, voice warm, almost melodic, “there was cheesecake down in HR, someone’s birthday I think. Thought you might like some.”

It’s her favorite and such a wonderful gesture that she can’t help but smile brightly back at him, even through her unsettled nerves. He’s been doing that a lot lately--making her smile. Their relationship has evolved so much over the past year--they’ve grown so much—morphed into something she cherishes so deeply that she’s mildly terrified of somehow ruining it with the slightest misstep.

Such as the misstep of admitting to your partner that you can’t stop thinking about his joking request to date you.

“Thanks,” she replies as he sits down and passes her a fork. She takes a bite of the creamy dessert, humming slightly in appreciation.

They lapse into an easy conversation, punctuated occasionally with burst of lazy laughter, and she finds herself wondering if this is what is would be like to date him.

He makes an offhand comment, and she retorts with a quick quote. Raising his eyebrows in mild surprise, he cocks his head slightly as he considers her response. Green eyes shimmer adoringly at her, causing her breath to catch slightly. They don’t usually look at each other this way, this openly.

She wonders if this isn’t a date after all.

“Ziva David,” he murmurs, incredulous, “Did you just quote a movie?” He’s leaning into her now, voice low, gaze holding hers. She feels dizzy.

“No,” she swallows hard, brow furrowing as she attempts the keep her focus amidst the havoc his proximity creates inside her. “I quoted a book,” she explains, “that was made into a movie.”

He chuckles softly, “Well, I’m still impressed,” he insists, continuing to hold her gaze, a playful smile on his lips. She finds herself leaning further into him.

“Really?” she teases, unable to resist baiting him further, curious to see how far this new flirtatious Tony is willing to go. Because they haven’t pushed at this limit with each other in a long time. He tilts his head, leans in close enough that she can smell his cologne, sending a thrill of excitement through her.

She’d forgotten how much she enjoyed this.

“Very,” he replies, voice rough, barely above a whisper. His eyes flit over her features, lingering for a moment on her lips, and the air around them becomes supercharged. Suddenly, she desperately wishes this really was a date. Because he’s looking at her in a way she’s fairly certain he never has before—at least not outside of the fantasies she will never admit to—all wanting mixed with deep affection. Her pulse quickens, pounds a steady rhythm so loud she’s surprised it’s not echoing in the empty room. She remembers why they stopped pushing at this boundary: it became harder and harder to stop, to pull away from the game.

She has a feeling somewhere along the way this stopped being a game for both of them.

Her body moves closer to his of its own volition, they're almost nose to nose now, and she can feel the way his breath quickens against the skin of her cheek. They should stop this, because this is starting to feel a whole lot like the part of the date where they kiss. Which is crazy. Yet, she remains frozen, entranced in the moment, almost willing him to close the distance and…

His phone rings; McGee has a new lead in the case.

She’s not sure whether to be relieved or frustrated by the interruption.

***

He hates telephones.

McGee’s call forces them back into reality, and work keeps them preoccupied the rest of the day and into the next as Gibbs drags them down lead after lead until he’s so hyped up on bad coffee and lack of sleep that he’s not sure he even fully remembers yesterday much less if the moment in between his partner and him in the break-room was real or fantasy.

All he’s really certain of is that he missed another chance.

Another day later, the case finally winds down; they catch their killer in the middle of an abandoned warehouse, confession and all. He finds himself alone with her again as they gather some last-minute evidence Abby needs to rerun for her report. The silence lingers awkwardly between them in the evidence lockup, and he’s just beginning to believe he’s ruined things between them completely when she finally speaks.

“So did you find someone to go with?” she asks, her voice hesitant, eyes fixated on the evidence in front of her. It has all the appearance of an innocent question, but he hears the slight uncertainty in her voice, the small almost imperceptible pause in her sentence that tells him she’s not quite sure she wants to know the answer to that question.

He takes a gulp of much needed air, the atmosphere in the evidence lock up suddenly thick as his stomach lurches nervously. Because this is it. This is the universe handing him his millionth chance with her; another opportunity to stop avoiding his feelings, to finally start admitting to them. Yet another reminder that he needs to stop ignoring fate.

“Nah, figured I’d go stag,” he can’t resist the urge to draw out his response, provide himself with a few more moments of avoidance.

Her gaze snaps around to meet his, and he catches the mixture of relief and confusion that flickers across her face before she settles on a narrowed gaze of disbelief.

“Yeah,” he continues, coy smile forming on his features, “the person I really wanted to go with said no.”

Chocolate brown eyes soften as she holds his gaze, “I am sorry Tony.” She nudges his shoulder encouragingly, “Maybe she will come around, yes?” Her words are sincere, laced with just a hint of disappointment, and he wants to laugh at the irony. Because even after he almost kissed her, she still thinks he could possibly want someone else.

He swallows hard, tempted to leave his answer vague. It would be so easy to fall back into their normal banter with a witty remark and a moment of self-deprecation, safe from his feelings and the possibility of her rejection. Clearing his throat, he attempts to stifle the blind panic that arises in him at what he’s about to do. It’s now or never. It’s time to stop wasting his chances.

“Don’t think so,” he murmurs softly, taking a step toward her, words and gait surprisingly smooth despite the circus performance his insides are currently putting on, “She told me I’d already had my chance.”

She gasps softly, eyes widening as she stares at him in shock. He’s so close to her now he can smell the jasmine from her shampoo, and if he were a braver man he might be tempted to prove his earnest with a grasp of her hand or a kiss to her cheek. But he’s not sure if that would be in his favor at the moment, or land him in a hospital wing; instead, he holds her stare with as much honesty as he can brave, unwilling to let her to think this is just another one of their meaningless games, to think his words could mean anyone else but her.

Her eyes flicker through a myriad of emotions, pupils dilating on a note of what he might call hope and longing had he wanted to tempt fate, mouth opening silently as she struggles to find a reply. After a moment, he drops his gaze shyly, ends the moment out of fear, because he’s not certain he wants to hear her words when she eventually finds them.

“Yeah, well…” he clears his throat nervously, stooping to pick up a box of evidence before flashing her a small smile, “better get this stuff up to Abby.”

She stares at him incredulously; mouth still agape as he turns and heads toward the elevators, letting out a sigh of relief, a small wave of excitement coursing through him at having been able to so obviously fluster his usually quick partner. The elevator dings and he steps inside, feeling much lighter even though there’s a possibility he could have just shifted their friendship irrevocably-and not necessarily in a good way.

He’s finally made his move. The ball’s in her court now. It’s her chance to lose.

Because he’s not wasting his anymore.

***

She stares at the closed elevator doors in shock, her mind reeling, his words echoing in her head.

The person I really wanted to go with.

Wanted. Her. The room seems to spin, and she leans back against the cool metal of the lock-up table with a gasping breath. This all seemed too surreal. Emotions rage through her, making her heart pound and stomach churn; she’s feels exposed, cut open.

Damn him.

In only three short sentences, he’d managed to effectively change everything. One simple phrase and suddenly the game they’d been playing for years, entrenched in only vague possibility and hope, became an all-too real reality where their actions now had consequences. A lot of them.

Her mind offers up her usual logic: Rule #12; Gibbs wrath; this would ruin their partnership; they would surely kill each other; they had nothing in common, but each excuse seemed more futile than the last. She no longer believed Gibbs held onto his rules so dearly, and they were no longer the same people they were when she had first made those excuses to protect her heart. No, here she was, hiding behind dated reasoning, afraid of finally moving forward, terrified they might actually be good together, losing yet another chance.

God, they really were romantically dysfunctional.

The person I really wanted to go with. In one moment, in the middle of the evidence lock-up of all places, he’s gone and ended their game. Called their hands, and left his on the table for her to decide whether to fold or go all in. She’d be angry with him for forcing the reigns of their relationship into her hands, if only his words didn’t make her feel so damn giddy.

Fear spreads panic in her chest as she considers the uncertain future he’s suddenly laid before her. They could just ignore this, shove everything back behind that line before it was too late, pretend it was all a misunderstanding until the awkwardness of the situation faded and they both moved on. She's wasted enough of her own chances with him over the years in exactly this manner, too frightened of exposing herself to vulnerability to act. Except this time, his words haven’t left much for her to misinterpret, no matter how much she might claim English isn’t her native tongue, and she’s not so sure anymore that they could move on from this.

You’ll find someone, someday.

She’s pretty sure she already has. The only real question here is if she’s willing to take the chance; because she’s doesn’t think either of them will find the courage to cross this line again if she isn’t.

She is. The burst of clarity finally pushes through the fog of her emotion muddled senses, emboldening her as she pushes off the table and heads toward the elevator determinedly. Her words before had been the wrong tense. Tony still had a chance with her if he wanted it.

And it was time she made sure he realized that.

***

The bullpen is quiet by the time he makes his way back from Abby’s lab, the rest of the team already home for the night except for his partner sitting at her desk, clearly recovered from her earlier shock. With a sigh he makes his way over to his desk, giving the keyboard a perfunctory tap to bring the computer back online.

Ziva is silent across from him, eyes focused on the computer screen, fingers purposefully flying across the keyboard as she types her report. Dread pits in his stomach, and he wonders if this is her answer, to ignore his words completely, to let this just be another blip in their case report, locked up in evidence along with the completion of this case.

“Tony.”

His head snaps up at the sound of her voice, she’s stopped typing, deep brown stare focused entirely on him, “About earlier...,”

She twists her hands in front of her, looking down at grey hard plastic of her desk, and a panic settles in his chest. This is the part where she lets him down gently; tells him he’s been reading far too much into their interactions over the past years, lets him know this is all one sided. He gulps nervously, feeling mildly nauseated.

“Ziva, look…,” he begins quickly; ready to cut her off, put them both out of their misery, allow them to retreat back into the comfort of the friends and partners only zone they’ve carefully built for seven years. But she shakes her head roughly, halting the words on his tongue.

Clearing her throat softly, she snaps her gaze up to meet his, “You never actually asked, you know.” She sends him a small smile, “How do you know her answer if you never really asked her?” Her words are quiet, almost timid, but they echo loudly in the dim light of the deserted room.

Her eyes flirt with his in the soft lighting, all the air seems to disappear from the room. She bites her lip anxiously, and he watches a brief flash of terror cross her features; it hits him that she’s just as petrified of this as he is.

Jesus, he was a lucky bastard. Somehow, they’ve finally ended up on the same page.

He’s out of his chair and halfway across the room before he realizes it. Ziva’s eyes widen in surprise, and she stands abruptly to meet him as he rounds the corner of her desk. Clearly, she wasn’t quite expecting him to react so quickly. But then, neither of them is playing by their usual rules tonight.

“Ziva,” he begins breathlessly, determined to see this through before he runs out of courage completely.

She looks up at him expectantly, moves closer to him until they’re almost touching, “Yes, Tony?”

He finds himself momentarily mesmerized by the way she says his name, soft, almost intimate. He’s pretty sure she’s never said his name like that before. Never looked at him this way either, cheeks flushed, lips parted slightly as she takes a shallow breath, gaze open, finally holding nothing back. It makes his pulse jump erratically; he hopes it’s going to become a more common occurrence now. Provided she said yes, this is.

His stomach twists nervously at that thought, and he forces himself back to task at hand. Swallowing thickly, he continues, “I was wondering…,” He takes a deep breath, “if you would like to go out with me on Friday? I’ve got tickets to a concert, and we could try that new Persian place you’ve been talking about.” The words come out slightly rushed, but they’re there, finally.

Her eyes search his, “We as in, you and me?” she echoes his past words softly, and yeah he gets it, the need for no more ambiguity between them.

“Yeah, you and me…us.” And there it is; no take-backs, no more uncertainty. All that’s left are answers. A smile spreads across her features at his reply.

“Yes,” she answers at last, brown eyes sparkling up at him in a way that makes his breath catch and his heart pound rapidly. “I would love to.”

His head spins as his mind struggles to process her answer. He holds her stare, amazement mixed with intense bursts of happiness swirling in his chest as he tries to convince himself that he isn’t dreaming.

“Great,” he eventually manages to say, unable to stop beaming at her, “It’s a date.”

She returns his wide grin, chuckling softly as she nods her head, affectionate gaze never leaving his as she affirms, “It is a date.”

It’s the most beautiful sound, he decides, the sound of a chance becoming reality.

#ncis #tiva #justtellher fanfiction #tiva fanfiction #this wouldn't leave me alone until I wrote it #i mean those two scenes with the you had your chance and the book quote #alksjdlakjslfkja #i couldn't not right something

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justtellher · 12 years

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There are many hours of darkness before the dawn. A study of Tony and Ziva in the nights after the explosion.

#ncis #tiva #justtellher fanfiction #tiva fanfiction #this story has been stuck in my head ALL SUMMER #like literally since the season finale #problem is the muse demanded it be written out of order #so you're getting pretty much all of it in the next two days #it's my way of distracting myself until the premiere!!!#tony dinozzo #ziva david #if I'm not on too much before the s10 premiere this is why #I wanna finish editing this before the season starts

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justtellher · 12 years

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Memory Lingering - AU Tony/Ziva

Not really sure where this idea came from; I saw a photoset of Tony during SWAK earlier today, and my mind just couldn't let go of this "what if" ficlet.

They tell her his name was Tony.

Handsome, smart, a fine senior field agent.

When she asks, they tell her of how he died. How he passed only weeks before the gunshot that claimed another one of their own and led her to them. How pneumonic plague claimed his life like it used to in medieval tales of knights and castles.

They tell her his name was Tony.

A man never without a movie quote, a self-proclaimed film aficionado.

She's never even owned a TV, doesn't plan to either, but then McGee comes forward to offer her Tony's old TV and DVD player along with some of his films, saying she's welcome to take them or else they'll be donated. She accepts the offer, happy to spare Tim from having to search further for a place to part with his former co-workers belongings.

She finds it strange no family collected his effects, finds the question slipping out before she can stop it. Only a father they tell her; took them two weeks to track him down to deliver the news of his son's death. She understands perfectly-distant fathers an all too familiar constant of her life.

The movies sit in a box by her sofa for a week before she gets around to watching one. Work is quiet, but busy, the rest of her new team still mourning their losses, and she still the outsider not quite trusted by anyone but Gibbs. Finally on a Friday night, after wrapping up her first case, she digs through the box, pulling out a worn case, cracked around the edges; The Untouchables starring a man named Sean Connery, an obvious favorite of the former owner. She places it in the DVD player. Thirty minutes later, she's beginning to understand why he liked it.

Two hours later, the credits roll, and she finds herself picking another disc from the box. Friday nights become her movie nights.

She gets to know his memory through his favorite films.

They tell her his name was Tony.

Italian, playboy, always a man with a cocky smile.

So she imagines he must have looked the part, swagger in his step, ridiculously immaculate suit that brought out smoldering eyes to break any heart.

She finds Caitlin Todd's old sketchbook in her locked desk drawer at the end of her first work week; sits quietly in the dim after-hours light of the bullpen flipping through its thin pages. She recognizes his face easily, it's the only one she doesn't see every day. The drawing isn't what she expected, neither is the photo of him with the team that slips out from between the pages, his green eyes sparkling up at her. Sure, he has a slightly cocky grin, maybe a little bit of arrogance around the edges, but she also finds him relaxed, cheerful. However, it's his gaze that gets to her the most, green orbs that aren't leering and lustful like so many womanizing men she has known.

No, Tony DiNozzo had kind eyes, soft, soulful. The kind that told you everything, the kind that wouldn't shut up. They remind her of her mother's.

She discovers the ring in another box of DVDs Tim brings over a few weeks later, mistakenly tossed in when someone was clearing the closets of his things perhaps. It's dusty, not been touched in years, yet the diamond is still clear and bright after it's gentle use. Clearly, the playboy had once wanted to commit.

It inexplicably saddens her to think someone would break his heart. Makes her wonder if the person who did regrets it.

They tell her his name was Tony.

Prankster through and through, never a moment for serious matters.

It takes time to fill his desk. Senior field agents are not as easy to find as junior agents, and Gibbs seems particularly strict in his requirements for the desk across from hers. Candidate after candidate passes through the bullpen, but none of them ever sit in his chair. His desk remains untouched.

Late one night in the bullpen, long after everyone else has left, she ventures over to the vacated space, partially out of need for a stapler, and the other part mere curiosity. Sifting gently through the drawers, she can't help but smile-the whoopee cushions, McGee's missing CDs, a Mighty Mouse stapler-his personality takes over the desk. She would have liked to seen one of his pranks; would've hated him for it if she became the subject of it, but nonetheless, she's sorry he never tried to make her laugh.

She imagines he wouldn't have had to try very hard to earn her smile.

A stack of papers shoved into the back of the desk catches her attention, and she pulls them gently from the drawer. A decade of newspaper clippings fill her hands, some recent, some yellowed from age, all related to a tragedy, a murder, or in the oldest case, a fire. She does some digging into old files, ascertains that they are all snippets from cases he couldn't solve, from events he couldn't stop in time. The oldest article breaks her heart even as it changes her view of him completely. Tearing at the edges, the paper reads of a young basketball player who saved a boy from a fire, and the little girl who was lost. The news makes no mention of the young man's name, but she knows it was him. She'd never understood how a college basketball star decides to become a cop, until now.

She wonders if the rest of them know how much of a hero their friend really was, how much guilt he carried around under a mask of jokes.

She decides someday she'll tell them.

They tell her his name was Tony.

Unwavering in loyalty, a man who could be counted on through all the jokes.

Sometimes, she swears she sees his face. A quick glance at the empty desk across from her, and she can almost see him smiling back at her, that same lazy, genuine grin so prominent in all his photos. Even once they fill the empty team slot, his memory still persists around her, a mirage of a partner she never knew.

Casually, she jokes to McGee that it sometimes feels like he's still there; words stated half in jest, half because she is mildly concerned for her sanity. Tim shudders and returns the quip, stating that being haunted by Tony would involve more unexplained tricks and pranks than mere feeling, but if she ever finds her hands inexplicably glued to her keyboard she should probably call an exorcist. A ghostly DiNozzo would never be a good thing.

Yet she feels strangely comforted by the idea of his continued presence; somehow the idea of him makes her feel safe, assured. She tells herself she is an idiot for feeling this way, for putting any stock in souls and spirits, for allowing the memory of a dead stranger to worm it's way into her heart.

Weeks turn into months, cases dock sleep from her schedule and put paperwork on her desk. Gradually, life seems to return to her teammates, the world moves on. She finishes his DVD collection, closes the case on the last disc, feeling as though she's losing a piece of herself with the final credits. She knows it's time to leave, to move on, rejoin Mossad, and stop losing her focus on dead men with kind eyes.

After all, this was only ever supposed to be temporary; she can't allow herself to become attached to this place, this team.

Still, she slips a picture of him between the pages of her book as she prepares go.

They tell her his name was Tony.

And every time she thinks of his name, a pang of sorrow seeps through her chest, a feeling of longing closes up her throat.

She imagines he would have made her want to call this place home.

#ncis #tiva #tiva fanfiction #au tiva #justtellher fanfiction #i don't really know where this came from #the muse saw a gif of tony when he had the plague #and just ran with this little what if idea

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justtellher · 12 years

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She steps back into the bull pen, and Tony feels the air in the room get sucked out, replaced with a hot, dense burn that causes his mind to fog and his throat to parch. Endless tanned legs meet the hem of a shiny black dress that's really almost too short to warrant the name, and that stretches across her lithe form in all of the right places. She's magnetic, and he's helpless to look away, dragging his eyes across the flash of cleavage that makes his brain short circuit and over the tan jacket that he's really thankful she has put on; because honestly, the sight of her bare shoulders just might send him over the edge right now. He finds his hands twitching and his pulse pounding erratically as his eyes follow the column of her neck up to meet soft brown eyes; a chocolate brown gaze that is focused intently on him, wide-eyed, filled with amusement and mixed with uncertainty.

Dammit, she had caught him staring.

Yet he can't bring himself to look away, and any sly comments his mind brings forth to lighten the mood die on his lips. Because god, she is absolutely stunning, the pale pink gloss on her lips shimmering in the dim light, her hair framing her features in such a soft brown hue that he has to forcibly remind himself to resist the impulse to run his fingers through the silky strands, an impulse that would normally have worried him, had he not spent the better part of the last year slowly adjusting to the idea of his less than platonic feelings for his partner. Feelings that were getting increasingly harder to control.

Especially when Ziva wore something like this.

She arches an eyebrow at him and smirks in silent jest over his reaction to her ensemble, and his mind quickly tamps down any possible vocal response. Because if he opens his mouth, he is sure that he will admit too much, divulge more words than either of them are ready to hear right now. They're stressed, going on far too little sleep, with a terrorist threat hanging over their every thought, and quite frankly, that's not at all the way he wants that revelation to go down. Instead, his eyes caress her features, a shy, approving smile spreading across his features, letting her ascertain her own interpretation of his gaze.

When she drops her gaze, red staining her cheeks, biting her lip against her flustered grin, he begins to realize that maybe she understands the words forming in his mind even better than he originally thought.

But then the rest of the team arrives, and they are headed for the elevators, all words fleeing his mind as he struggles not to blatantly admire his partner's barely concealed ass.

God, he really loves this dress.

***

Shot glasses slamming onto the table snap his focus back around to the fake bachelor party going on in front him. He grabs the glass in front of him mechanically, methodically raising his arm in toast to Palmer and knocking back the sweet liquid of the fake drink. Their silver haired leader flashes a mischievous grin and begins to flip quarters into the autopsy gremlin's drink, and Tony remembers to laugh at the appropriate moments; however, his mind really isn't present in their charade, instead focused twenty yards away on the gorgeous ex-assassin that he can't stop stealing glances at.

As everyone continues to laugh at Gibbs' continued success and Palmer's increasing "drunkenness,” he sneaks a small peak over his shoulder at the woman currently distracting his thoughts. His eyes raking over her figure, his pulse racing rapidly as he tries to imagine just where in that tiny dress she has managed to hide her sidearm, much less the backup he knows she always carries. He watches as she runs a hand absentmindedly over her bare thigh, and his heart rate flatlines as he is inundated with images that are completely inappropriate for the current public space, namely running his hands over the tanned skin of his partner's legs. His body tightens uncomfortably as he imagines the smooth firm sensation of her skin beneath his fingertips. Then Palmer's voice is dragging him out of his reverie, and he mentally shakes himself, willing his frayed mind to focus on the assistant medical examiner's impending speech. He feels sluggish, his mind a hazy, distracted blur, and Jimmy seems a little too convincing in his slurred soliloquy and staggering stance. Maybe there really was more to these shots than met the eye.

"Are you sure these are just apple juice?"

Turns out Palmer is just a really good actor, and he's just drunk off of her.

***

It's quiet in the bullpen, the soft ringing of phones and hushed voices of the numerous agents working overtime on this threat the only sounds that surround him as he tries and fails to focus on the report in front of him. He hasn't managed to comprehend a single word since she decided to perch herself next to his desk, a stack of paper in her hands, and that black dress still hugging her in all of the right places to effectively short circuit his brain. His eyes wander over the vast expanse of toned leg his partner has extended before him, hands involuntarily clenching around the report he's holding. She is tantalizingly close to him, and it's turning into a mildly embarrassing struggle to control the urge to touch her. Briefly, he considers just how quickly she would kill him if just gave into the impulse, running his hands up her smooth skin, wrapping an arm around her waist, and burying the other in her hair... After her reaction earlier this evening he’s beginning to think maybe she wouldn’t injure him at all, that maybe she wouldn’t mind if he did want to touch her, to kiss her, and that’s the thought that really makes his head pound and his heart stutter.

“You are staring again,” Ziva whispers quietly, and he quickly snaps his gaze up to meet hers, a chagrined smile spreading over his features as he flushes an embarrassed red.

“Sorry,” he returns softly, not bothering to deny the accusation. After all, it was the second time today she’d caught him, obviously he was past plausible deniability.

She holds his gaze, tilting her head slightly as she studies him, “You have been staring a lot this evening.”

He drops his head sheepishly, ah so maybe she had noticed a little more than twice. Damn. Raising his head, he meets her gaze with an apologetic stare, and the uncertainty and doubt he finds in her dark brown depths stop the change of topic he has prepared before he can even form the first word. Because she really has no idea why he can’t stop staring at her; she doesn’t understand why his eyes have followed her all evening, why his eyes are drawn to her most any day really. It occurs to him maybe no one has ever really told her, or maybe she just doesn’t believe that he has that opinion of her. However, either way, he suddenly decides that she shouldn’t be allowed to continue without knowing. With a deep breath, he stands slowly, moving closer, his eyes holding hers in a steady gaze.

“Ziva, look...” he begins.

And then like so many of the moments between them as of late, his words are cut short by the ring of his phone, breaking them from their private world, and plunging them back into the on alert NCIS headquarters. Vance has disappeared, there are more calls to be made, and a new investigation to undertake in this seemingly endless tangle of dead ends and mysteries masterminded by the crazed Harper Dearing. The moment is gone, and Ziva grabs her bag, heading to change before they move out to the director’s last known location. He watches her walk out of the bullpen, a silent promise forming in his mind.

When this is all over, he is done with pretending. He is somehow going to find the courage to finally ask her on a date worthy of that little black dress.

And he’s not going to leave her with any doubt about just how beautiful she really is.

#tony dinozzo #ziva david #tiva #tiva fanfiction #justtellher fanfiction #I couldn't not write a tag/missing scene about this dress #she just looked so good #akalskjdalkjslkajs #also my muse has thoughts of continuing this #*watches mind wander off happily*#also this gif and image are not mine #they belong to tonyandzivauk #and riseandwrite #i just borrowed them and put them together #ncis

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