The Tortured Poets Tales

by Whoa_MyNinja

Summary:

A collection of 31 short stories about Tiva, inspired by the album 'The Tortured Poets Department' by Taylor Swift.

Chapter 1: Track 1: Fortnight

Summary:

I was a functioning alcoholic, 'till nobody noticed my new aesthetic.

 

His finger traces the top of the beer bottle, his gaze fixated on the golden liquid inside. He doesn't know how long he's been there... hours... days, perhaps, but it's long enough for the faint outlines of bodies to multiply, and the bitter stench of alcohol to linger on his clothes when he stumbles through his front door, and yanks off his tie. 

He knows he's drinking too much. If it's not at the bar for after work drinks where he stays several hours past last call, just sinking into the back of the booth, then the empty wine glasses and the discarded bottles of Merlot in the trash can, can tell him as much. Was it his third bottle this week, or his fourth? 

He’s become something of a functioning alcoholic in her absence. 

He slings his tie haphazrdly on the couch as he unbuttons his shirt, his body swaying from side to side when he saunters into the kitchen. His hands shake as he opens the drawer that he has become far too acquainted with, pulls out the corkscrew, and drags a fresh bottle of wine from the back of the counter. The pop of the cork echoes through his too big apartment, and he sighs when he reaches for a glass in the cabinet, only to find it empty. 

His eyes trail along the countertop at the stack of glasses he hasn't yet bothered to wash. Aside from showering before work, he doesn't bother to do much of anything these days. What's the point when he left the one thing that gave his life meaning, on the tarmac of Ben Guiron airport?

He groans. Out of options and without the energy to actually clean a fresh one, not that he could probably do so in the state he's currently in, he forgoes a glass entirely and instead grabs the bottle with one hand, and drags himself into the living room to sink into the couch. Usually, he would change into his grey sweatpants and make himself more comfortable, but the lethargy of losing her has taken its toll. It's only been a fornight without her, and yet a part of him wonders whether his plane crossed the singularity on the journey home, because the fourteen days he has spent since he's been back have felt like fourteen months. Fourteen months without her. Fourteen months of a crushing ache in his chest every time he thinks her. It's so hard to breathe. 

And he hates the silence. God, he hates it. There is too much space for him to think. Too much space for him to think of her and nothing else. He reaches for the remote and flicks the television on, unbothered by what he watches. All he needs is noise. And yet, as he scrolls through every channel, it is as silent as ever, and taunting him. The Sound of Music. The Wizard of Oz. Casablanca. Everything reminds him of her. 

He leans his head back and groans, before throwing the remote onto the seat beside him. He raises his head, taking a giant swig from the bottle, and then another, until the taste of beer is replaced with fermented grape, smooth and rich. It's Friday night, or perhaps Saturday morning - he doesn't know which -- but he knows he's off duty for the entire weekend, and nobody will come looking for him. Nobody will bother him. Not that they did much these days, though it wasn't for lack of trying. Abby had suggested he come bowling with her and the nuns, while McGee and Jimmy attempted to entice him with video games. 'Perhaps killing monsters would make you feel better... let out all the aggression,' Jimmy had said. To which Tony responded: 'I deal with enough monsters at work, Jimbo. I don't need fake ones too.' Not to mention, he was battling monsters of his own... or were they more like ghosts?

He notices that people have stopped mentioning her to him, and to each other. Sometimes, he wonders whether she had ever been real at all, or whether she was simply a figment of his imagination. Perhaps the way their bodies blended together beneath white cotton sheets, how he held her hips as she moaned and moved above him, and the way her caramel-coloured skin glistened with a thin sheen of sweat as his name slipped from her lips, had all been a dream. 

But then, as his eight o'clock beers turn into a five o'clock sunrise, with rays of light streaming through the windows, illuminating the mantelpiece in an amber glow; the golden chain displayed in full view, and winking at him as it glistens, he knows. He knows she was there, and he knows she left... or rather, he left her. Perhaps, they left each other? He knows the way she took his hand and led him through the olive grove into the farmhouse, and ever so tenderly removed his clothing; touching and kissing him in a way nobody had ever done before, was as palpable as his grip on the glass bottle in his hand at that very moment. 

He lets out an incredulous chuckle to himself. And, as he forces himself to bed, relcutantly, as he knows he'll only dream of her, he can almost hear the universe laugh back. 

Chapter 2: Track 11: I Can Fix Him (No Really I Can)

Summary:

His hand so callused from his pistol, softly traces hearts on my face.

 

“Well, this looks promising,” he said, as he pulled the car up outside the dilapidated building. 

“Promising?” she scoffed. I could think of many more places we’d be better off staying than here.”

He sighed, rolling his eyes as he stepped out of the car, Ziva following suit. 

"What's not to like?" he asked, as his eyes scanned their surroundings. 

The motel sat on the edge of a forgotten highway, its once-vibrant neon pink sign now flickering weakly, casting an intermittent glow over the decaying structure. The faded ivory paint on the exterior walls had withered from years of exposure to the elements, peeling away in patches and revealing the raw wood and rusted metal underneath. The windows, once clear and welcoming, were now coated in thick layers of grime; some nursing deep cracks and shattered glass, while others were boarded up with rotting planks of wood, or yellowing, brittle plastic. 

Large dips and potholes scattered across the parking lot; the asphalt cracking and crumbling from years of erosion. Several lifeless and empty trucks with flat tires and missing windows were parked underneath the flickering, dim, overhead lights – reminders of all the wandering souls who had passed through… those who never left, and those who had traded in their rides for a covert getaway. 

“A lot of things,” she replied. “Come on then, give us a movie reference.”

“What?” he asked. 

“A movie reference,” she paused. “Don’t tell me you do not have one?” She let out a chuckle. 

“I–actually, no. I don’t.”

Her eyes narrowed as she bit her lip. “What’s the matter with you?”

Their car ride across the border had been relatively silent. Tony had kept his entire focus on the road ahead, only interrupting every so often to ask if they were on the right track. He had barely turned his head to look at her, and he had tensed when her fingers had come to lightly rest on his arm. She would have been naive to not know that it had something to do with their argument before they left. 

“Jesus Christ, Ziva! How many times are we going to do this?”

“I am just giving you the opportunity. I know things have been difficult. I know that I am difficult. You have been through so much and you deserve a simple life, Tony. A life free from complications.”

“So you’re trying to push me away?”

“As I said, I am simply giving you the opportunity to find something… someone easier to handle.”

“Is that why we haven’t had sex in six months? You think if you hold out long enough I’ll get desperate enough to cheat on you?” He half laughed, in disbelief. “When are you going to get it? I don’t want easy or simple. I want you.”

“You have me,” she sighed, running a hand through her hair. “But I am not sure that it is enough.”

“You’re not sure it is… or that I am?”

She swallowed, guilt crossing her face. “You are everything to me. I love you with all of my heart.”

“But is that enough ? Will it ever be enough to make this… whatever we are… work?”

Tears brimmed in her eyes as he looked at her. “I do not know.”

“Why would something be the matter?” he asked. 

“The silent car ride. No movie references. This is not the Tony DiNozzo I know.”

“Yeah, well,” he said, fixating on anything but her, “maybe you don’t know him anymore.”

She gulped, watching as his jaw twitched; his words an ice pick through her heart. 

---

Inside, the lobby was sparse. Floral wallpaper that once sat upright, now, much like the exterior of the building, was peeling and the edges had faded to ghastly pastel shades. The wooden reception desk was scratched and dented, and gnawed in places, by what Tony didn’t want to know, and upon the counter sat a rusted gold bell, which he tapped lightly, only to be disappointed when it didn’t ring. 

The red and brown threadbare carpet was stained in various places, seemingly with water damage, while an old coffee maker hummed in the corner, though it was entirely evident that it hadn’t brewed a fresh pot in years. Ziva gulped as a single, dim lightbulb swung from the ceiling above their heads, casting long uneven shadows across the walls that made it feel more like an abandoned relic, than a partially functioning motel. 

Tony scanned the board of keys hanging behind the counter, swiping the cleanest looking one he could find, though he supposed there were very few good options to choose from with the state of the place. Ziva raised her eyebrow and he held it up in front of her, and she shrugged, nodding, sharing his thoughts. 

A faint smell of mildew swirled around them as they headed down the hallway leading to the rooms; the fluorescent lights buzzing incessantly overhead, and numbered doors with rusting metal and flaking turquoise paint greeted them, none of them inviting. 

When he reached room 308, he unlocked the door, and a grimace spread across his face. Perhaps Ziva was right and they should find somewhere else to stay. 

But, before he could suggest it, she slipped past him into the middle of the room.

“Well, I’ve stayed in worse places,” she shrugged, examining the decor and throwing her go bag onto the floor.

The carpet was identical to that of the lobby, and the furniture inside, while not in the nicest condition wasn't entirely unusable, despite the torn upholstery of the chair in the corner, and the clearly sagging and lumpy mattress on the bed. In the bathroom, the fixtures were partially chipped, the once gleaming white porcelain now a shade of ivory, with a dull yellow bathtub to match, and a shower curtain hanging crookedly, its fabric stiff with neglect. 

Through the small window, she caught a glimpse of the empty pool, now a murky, stagnant pit covered with a thin film of green algae. The surrounding fencing was rusted and bent, with a few stray weeds having crept through the cracks in the concrete. She scowled, though couldn’t help but feel saddened by the wasted potential of the place. 

Perhaps, if someone had cared enough, it would have been warm and welcoming – full of vibrant signs of life instead of a forgotten haunt for the down-and-out, withered by the hands of time. The air would carry a quiet serenity instead of an ominous stillness that surrounded them currently, like the motel was waiting for its inevitable collapse, or the return of some lost souls looking for a place to hide. 

She twisted the tap of the sink, surprised when a stream of clear, running water flowed through it and into the basin. Well, that was one positive, she supposed.  

“So?” he asked, as she reappeared back into the bedroom. 

“We are in for a rough night, DiNozzo.”

---

“It is freezing in here,” she said as she curled underneath the blanket. After having nearly choked on the dust cloud from the bed covers, they replaced them with two thick blankets from the trunk of Tony’s Mercedes. It wasn’t ideal, but they would be leaving as soon as the sun rose in less than three hours, so as long as they could make it through the night with some sleep, it would suffice. 

“Well, there’s no heating,” he chuckled as he rifled through the draws in search of anything that might be useful, “but I saw a pile of dusty books in the corner, and I think there’s a lighter in my car. I can always start a fire.”

She rolled her eyes. “The last time you started a fire in an enclosed space, it nearly killed us both.”

“Actually,” he said, turning back to her, “I think that was the work of the projectile from your gun ricocheting off metal which nearly decapitated us.”

“Besides,” she bit her lip, “I can think of a better way for us to get warm.”

She swallowed, nervously staring at him. He paused for a moment, thinking. It’s no different than the two of you sharing a bed at home, Tony. Heat radiated off his body as he joined her beneath the covers, the woody scent of his cologne permeating the air around them, and replacing the mouldy damp smell they had greeted them when they first arrived. She closed her eyes, inhaling. God, she found his cologne irresistible. She found him irresistible, especially when he flashed her his charming smile or his eyes sparkled at her with love and adoration. 

She let out a small sigh. He hadn’t been wrong when he accused her of withholding sex in order to push him away, despite knowing that he wasn’t with her for that. She had never loved anybody the way, or to the magnitude, that she loved Tony. But, she couldn’t deny the small voice in her head telling her that he would leave, eventually. Everybody did. Her mother and Tali had died. She had killed Ari. And then her father died too. Shmeil had passed away several years ago, and the only family she had left in the world were Tony and Tali. But, at some point they would see that she was damaged goods. And they would leave her too. Everybody she loved left her. 

“You are very toasty,” she stated. Her voice was small and timid, and he smiled at how… endearing it was. His eyes were soft and sparkling as he reached out an index finger to her face, her heartbeat pounding in her ears and ribcage. Though it wasn’t at all the first time they were sleeping together, as they they had shared many beds over the years, had a twelve year old daughter as evidence of their more definitive interpretation of the word, and had continued to share a bed despite their current rough patch , there was something about the confined space of the motel walls that made this time feel different. Forbidden, somehow. 

Tony would say that it was because all of the couples in the classic Hollywood films had their secret rendezvous in motels, and he fancied themselves a modern day version of Bonnie and Clyde… two star-crossed lovers in love and on the run. But, for Ziva, perhaps it was because they were miles away from anything or anyone, and there was nothing else to find there except vulnerability, from which neither of them could shy away. 

His touch was light and delicate, though she could feel the callus on his fingertip, acquired from decades of using a Sig Sauer, as he softly traced the shape of a heart across her face. 

Her breath hitched as he began at her cheek, slowly dragging the pad of his finger up to her forehead; her skin prickling beneath his touch. Her eyelids fluttered closed when he reached the divet in her brows, hovering for a moment before he caressed her nose, then mirrored his actions on the opposite side of her face. 

She swallowed, hard, as she opened her eyes to find him gazing intensely at her. When he traced another heart across her face, she willed her eyelids to stay open as she relaxed into his touch, wanting to memorize every second of it. It was the most intimate they had been in months. Though they often shared kisses on the lips or the cheek, and one or two hot and heavy makeout sessions after Tali had gone to sleep – but which were always fast and ended abruptly before they could go too far – she hadn’t let him touch her the way he was touching her now – tenderly and with so much care it made her heart swell. She hadn’t let herself be loved by him. 

The faint sliver of light from the moon outside illuminated his silhouette on the bed, against the backdrop of darkness in the room. Her eyes glanced down to his body, coy, as she watched his chest rise and fall in synchronicity with her own. 

If it had been any other people, they likely would have been unnerved by the eerie stillness – of the slow, monotonous dripping of the faucet from the bathroom; the way the light in the corner of the room intermittently flickered; and the howling of the wind that rattled the door, the creaking hinges cutting through the silence that enshrouded them. But perhaps when you had been subjected to the very real horrors that Tony and Ziva had encountered during their decades of crime-fighting, there was very little in the way of imagined ones lurking in the dark corners that could terrify them. Except for the possibility of losing each other. 

When her eyes returned to his gaze, she noticed the smallest of smiles playing at his lips, as his hand paused, before coming to cup her face. 

“Tony–”

“Shh,” he whispered. His eyes were the warmest she had ever seen them, and it took everything in her not to drown. He dipped his head slowly, his gaze flickering from her eyes to her mouth as he did so. He hesitated, expecting her to turn away from him. But when he noticed the glint in her eye and her elongated glance at his lips, he took it as an invitation to proceed. 

She kissed him back, her hands instinctively raking through his hair until her brain finally engaged, and pulled back to catch his gaze. “Wait, I–”

“If this is about our argument,” he began, “you don’t need to explain.” His voice was understanding, perhaps affording her more than she had earned. “I’m also sorry for what I said earlier.”

She nodded slightly, “I know,” she said, her palms resting on his shoulders. “And I am sorry too. You were right about what you said before we left,” she wet her lips, “I have been pushing you away. I-I have been in self sabotage mode, I know. I thought that if somehow we stopped that , you would see how broken I am and it would be easier for you to walk away.”

“Hey, hey, Ziva,” he replied, his hand coming to cup the back of her neck. “You’re not broken . Please don’t ever say that.” His lips grazed hers lightly, not quite kissing her. “You could withhold sex for the rest of our lives and I still wouldn’t want to be with anyone else. I want every messy, complicated, frustrating, infuriating part of you.” He paused, pulling back slightly. “I’m so fucking in love with you that it drives me crazy. You drive me crazy.”

Her eyes crinkled as she gave him a warm smile, her fingertip softly touching his bottom lip, before replacing it with her mouth. “You are enough,” she whispered, a tear slipping down her cheek. “What we have is enough.” She brought her head back to look at him. “I love you, and I want to make this work, Tony.”

“So do I,” he replied, resting his forehead against hers. 

“But I am scared,” she admitted. “What if we cannot…”

“I’ll always be here, Ziva. God forbid you stop loving me someday, I’ll always be here. As a co-parent. As your friend. I really hope you love me forever, because there is nothing that will ever make me stop loving you. You can try as hard as you want to push me away, but I’m not going anywhere.”

Another tear slipped from her eye. She didn’t deserve him. He softly brushed away the tear with the pad of his thumb, as his fingers tangled in her hair.

“I just–” 

“Ziva,” he let out a breathy laugh, partly in exasperation, “for the love of god,” he whispered against her lips, “just shut up and let me love you.”

He captured her lips in his and she let out a small moan when his tongue slipped into her mouth, deepening the kiss. Her hands cupped the back of his neck as his lips trailed across her jawline, before he turned his attention to the bare skin on her collarbone and placed several long, open-mouthed kisses to her neck. She sighed as her head tilted to one side, to give him better access; her hands curling in his hair. God, she had forgotten how good it felt. 

Goosebumps raised on her skin as he snaked his free hand beneath the covers, settling on her waist and gently pulling her closer. He smiled against the crook in her neck when he felt her hand cover his, guiding it underneath her shirt. A fire spread through her abdomen as his fingertips hovered at her ribcage, inches away from her bra, absentmindedly drawing soft circles across her skin as he brought their mouths back together. 

In one quick motion her leg curled around his, and never breaking their kiss, she used her entire weight to flip them over; Ziva straddling his lap. A waterfall of her hair cascaded around their faces as she melted into him, his hands sliding to the small of her back, palms splayed. He sat upright as she momentarily broke their kiss to slide her sweatshirt over her head, discarding it on the end of the bed, before tugging his own off him. 

His eyes fluttered shut, her breath tickling his skin as she sucked the sensitive spot beneath his left ear; a satisfied smirk crossing her face, when he unintentionally moaned. Her lips hovered above his earlobe, as she dropped her voice low, not that there were any eavesdroppers, other than the possible poltergeist hiding in the broken television set. “I assume you still remember how to unhook my bra?” she teased, gently moving his hands further up her back.

He opened his eyes, cupping the back of her head with his hand. Did she really want to do this? Or was she simply going along with it because she thought it was what he wanted. But, as his eyes locked on hers, he saw no hesitation or doubt in her deep brown swirls. He saw nothing but the love of his life gazing at him with adoration and certainty, and a hint of yearning for him to touch her. 

“Are you sure?” he asked, his fingers softly holding back her curls. 

She dipped her head, kissing him slowly. “It has been too long,” she whispered. “And I-I miss you. I miss us. I miss this.” And she wasn’t lying. She missed him, and them, and the way they explored each other's bodies in a quest to show the other just how loved they were. She missed the intimacy they shared — wrapping themselves in each other's arms for hours afterwards, in a comfortable silence or with gentle conversation, and the lightest of fingertips caressing exposed skin. 

Her words were met with a hungry, desperate kiss that made her whimper; his fingers tugging at her hair as he pulled her down to him, aching to touch her in a way he hadn’t for so long. 

And slowly, beneath the glimmer of the moonlight, two clothed figures became bare; warm lips against clammy skin, and hands roaming to their favourite spots like muscle memory. Heavy breathing, gasps, and soft moans replaced the unnerving silence, until their sweat-laden bodies were intertwined on the edge of euphoria. 

As the first hint of sunrise peeked through the darkness, she pressed her body back against him, her hair sticking to his naked torso, and he dropped a kiss to her head; his fingers absentmindedly stroking up and down her arm. 

A chill whipped through the air and she pulled the blanket tighter around them, her hand tracing circles on the inside of his thigh, as she interlocked the fingers of their free hands. 

“Well,” he smiled, pressing a kiss to her lips as she tilted her head back, “you were right. That was a far better way for us to get warm.”

She closed her eyes, the corners of his lips curving into a grin as she buried her face in his chest and a hearty giggle escaped her. 

Chapter 3: Track 22: So High School

Summary:

Tell me 'bout the first time you saw me.

 

For @indestinatus.

 

"Tony?" Ziva asks, raising her head as her eyebrows crinkle. She catches the gaze of her partner leaning against the doorframe with a lopsided i'm-so-in-love-with-you smile on his face, as she sits cross-legged on the bed, with boxes surrounding her. "Why do you have my thong in here?"

He coughs violently and the liquid burns his throat as he chokes on his coffee. He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand as he places the cup down onto the chest of drawers, before turning back just in time to watch her pull the bright, red lacy undergarment from the box. She raises an eyebrow, smirking as she holds it up for him to view. 

He chuckles, nervously. The fabric sways gently as it dangles between her thumb and index finger; his pants suddently feel uncomfortably tight as a flashback of her sun-kissed body arching beneath him as he drags them down her legs with teeth, floods his consciousness. He clears his throat. "It's a reminder," he smirks, relaxing slightly, "of a very hot summer in your apartment."

"I remember," she rolls her eyes, a smile playing at the corner of her mouth, "but why do you have them? Better yet, how?"

"You took your mementos from that time, and I took mine," he grins, his mind drifting to the t-shirt tucked away in the bottom drawer of her dresser. It was one of two that he had owned and it had suddenly disappeared during that summer and he had never seen it again... at least, not until the morning after they had made love in the farmhouse in Israel nearly seven years later. His eyes had nearly popped out of his head when she had made him breakfast dressed in the shirt, and only the shirt. All of his resolve had subsequently evaporated, eggs burned and discarded on the stove as he kissed her neck and his hands roamed her body, the two of them making love up against the kitchen counter (and on top of it), until their stomachs growled for sustenance. 

His skin prickles at the memory and he bites his lip. The shirt was, perhaps, a physical embodiment of their relationship, having survived so much: shootings, rescues, deaths, farmhouse explosions, Paris reunions...

"The memory of it is not enough?" she laughs, half-grimacing as she examines them, curious as to their... cleanliness. "You really had to keep these?" She wiggles them in front of his face. 

"I washed them," he shrugs casually, and she bites back a grin as she returns them to the box. "Though if we're going through this time capsule of treasures, I think you'll also find an old GSM magazine, some bikini photos you told me to burn about fifteen years ago, and-"

His words trail off as she pulls another, similar-sized item from the box, though it's starkly different in colour. She gulps as her fingertips trace the soft, grey fabric. "I, that's-"

"The bandana I was wearing the day we met," she replies, wondering if he notices the catch in her breath. She can't remember the last time she saw it, though she knows it was months before their secret summer of sneaking around together, twisted between sheets. How it got into his possession, she doesn't know. She had stopped wearing it several weeks after her move to the United States, as she felt it made her look too Middle Eastern; not that she was ashamed of her heritage, but as she had become accustomed to American life, she couldn't deny that she wanted very little to do with the place she had once called home in her younger years. Even more so after what her father had put her through. She was born in Israel, but her heart lay in America... well, actually, her heart was wherever Tony may be. "You kept it?"

"Why wouldn't I?" he asks, confused. 

She lightly shakes her head. "I do not know. I mean, there are better things to keep than an old bandana." She waves it haphazardly. Of course, she had kept many souvenirs of their time together too: the photo of Tony as a teenage boy that she had once taped to her computer monitor at her NCIS desk (which he had given back to her once she had moved into the apartment); the CD of the opera he had made her when she had been unable to get tickets; a pressed and framed red rose from the first bouquet of flowers he had ever bought her on their first real date in Paris, and a handful of small sentimental items that she kept safely stored in a box beneath their bed. When no answer comes, she raises her head (and her eyebrows), encouraging him to speak. "Tony?"

"You're going to think it's ridiculous," he says with a small sigh. The covers wrinkle as he perches himself on the corner of the bed, focusing on the photograph of himself and Ziva, kissing beneath the Eiffel Tower, sitting on the chest of drawers. She pinches the bridge of her nose, inhaling, before coming to sit behind him. She wraps her arms around his waist and rests her chin gently on his shoulder, earning herself a smile. His hands rest on top of hers and he intertwines their fingers. 

"I do think a lot of things you say most of the time are ridiculous," she replies, "but if this is important to you, it is not ridiculous at all." Her lips are warm as she presses a kiss to his cheek. God, he's so in love with her. 

He bites his lip, hesitating. "Do you believe in love at first sight?"

He hears her gasp sharply, taken aback by his question, though she does her best to play it off, albeit not successfully. She retreats slightly, slipping her hands from beneath his, suddenly understanding how he felt when she had asked him about whether he believed in soulmates. She maneuvers herself to come and sit beside him, offering a small smile as her hand comes to rest gently on his knee. "I do," she nods. 

"Tell me about the first time you saw me."

Her brows furrow. "You were there," she replies, “you know how we met."

"I do," he nods, "but humour me – please?"

"It was a Tuesday morning. You were fantasising about Kate in a catholic school girl's uniform and I asked you if you were having phone sex." He smirks at the memory, but doesn't interrupt her as she continues to speak. "You were looking awfully handsome in your striped shirt, and I was-"

"In khaki cargo pants, a white t-shirt, khaki jacket, and grey bandana, with your backpack over your shoulder. And then you sat in McGee's chair and let your wild, curly hair down."

She smiles, nodding. "Yes." Of course he remembers. "I was twenty-three and-"

A soft smile appears on his face as he leans in to kiss her, soft and slow. When pulls back, he's almost certain his heart might explode, pounding erratically in his chest as he gazes at her. "And just as beautiful as you are today." Her face flushes red, watching as he bites his lip. What was the matter with him, and why was he acting more strangely than normal? "Sometimes I forget how young you were when we met."

His skin burns beneath her touch as she delicately cups his face, her thumb softly caressing the apple of his cheek. Her eyes sparkle with warmth and adoration. Twenty three. God, she was old now. "I have loved you for half of my life."

His head tilts slightly, stupefied. "What?"

She smiles, knowingly. "I know I hardly had any experience of real love at all when we met, but the moment I first saw you... it was, as you said, love at first sight, though I do not think I knew it then. And then the summer we spent together, be both know I fell in love with you, as much as we tried to deny it and pretend it was 'no strings attached' sex." She pauses. Her heartbeat thumps in her ears as she musters the courage to continue with her train of thought. "The light spilled in a and I saw my friend. My heart saw him as if for the first time, and I knew I could not live without him. That is what I wrote in my diary, about when you rescued me from Somalia."

"You wrote that... about me?"

She nods. "Every time we have been face to face after months or years apart, it has been love at first sight all over again."

He's tempted to ask her more questions about her diary, except he finds different words on the tip of his tongue. "Marry me."

She inhales sharply, half-chuckling in disbelief as her eyes widen in surprise. "What?" Her gaze flickers between his irises, before she fixates on the tiny speck of gold within the green, attempting to ascertain the depth of truth and honesty in his statement, come question. Of course they'd had passing discussions about marriage over the years – whether they would be open to it. Ziva wanted nothing more than to marry him, but truthfully she hadn't actually expected him to ask. It had taken them years, but they had finally worked out their issues. They were in a good, solid place and wouldn't getting married change everything? "Tony-"

"I'm serious," he clarifies. A long silence forms between them before he speaks again. "How far into the box did you get?"

"What does that have to do with..."

He leans backward, reaching into the cardboard box, his hand rifling around for the object he knew was hidden at the very bottom. When his hand touches the velvet, he smiles, and pulls it from beneath the other items shielding it. 

"It has everything to do with it." He glances down at the box in his hands. "You know I've had this for a decade?" he states, nonchalantly. The air rushes from her lungs and she finds herself frozen, unable to do anything but stare at him. A decade? He twirls the box in his fingers.

"You have-"

"I bought this during the summer, before I found you in Israel. I even had it in my pocket during..." he clears his throat, remembering the way they had held each other in the orchard. I'm fighting for you, Ziva. "I had planned to give it to you, to prove I was serious – about wanting this. Us."

"Why didn't you?"

"Because I realised quickly that your mind was made up. And I didn't think giving you a ring was going to change that, not matter how hard I tried."

"But you kept it, even after I broke your heart?"

His eyes soften. "I couldn't bear to let it go. Call me crazy, but I held onto it in the hope that one day we might be together and I might actually be able to give it to you." She smiles coyly as he tucks a loose strand of her hair behind her ear. "I had to keep it somewhere Tali wouldn't find it accidentally," he continues, "and in a box of memories seemed like the perfect place."

"I love you so much," she whispers, warm tears brimming in the corners of her eyes. What did she ever do to get so lucky?

"I know," he smiles, slowly sliding off the bed and dropping to one knee. He takes a deep breath and she giggles through her tears as they slip down her cheeks. He softly wipes them away with the pad of his thumb, before he returns his focus to the matter at hand. "Ziva," he pauses, "from the moment I met you, life has been an adventure." That's the understatement of the century, DiNozzo. "Every time I look at you, it's like the first time. I know I'm a grown man, but when we're together, I feel like a teenage boy in high school again, with the world's biggest crush on the girl he's head over heels in love with. Because it's true. I don't think you'll ever understand how in love I am with you." He bites his lip. "Sure, things have been far from easy and perfect, but I would rather fight and argue with you, than make love to anybody else. You are the love of my life." 

She forces herself to breathe as he opens the box, revealing a small oval-cut diamond cushioned upon a gold band. He had worried that it was going to be too plain and simple, housing only one diamond instead of multiple, but the look on her face – of wonderment – tells him that he's made the right choice. It's delicate and stunning, and nothing too flashy... exactly the ring she would have picked herself if he had asked her to choose one. 

"I know it's-"

"Perfect," she responds, before he has time to critique his decision. She leans forward, capturing his lips, passionately. He's momentarily startled by her tongue in his mouth until he reciprocates. When they're breathless and in desperate need of air, he pulls his lips from hers. 

"Is that a yes?" he asks, resting his forehead against hers, their chests rising and falling in synchronicity. 

"I am not going to say yes to a question you haven't asked," she smirks. 

"Mhmm," he mumbles in agreement, pulling back to look her in the eyes. "Ziva David, I want to be with you until we're old and grey and shuffling around on our walkers, with Tali still groaning in disgust in her forties about how annoyingly in love her parents are." She chuckles. "Will you please do me the honour of becoming my wife?"

She thinks for a moment. "You do realise we will not be having a giant affair? Just you and I, Tali, and your father is all I would like. Small and personal."

"That sounds a lot like a yes." She raises an eyebrow with a smirk and he takes it as a sign to slip the ring onto her finger, beaming, dropping the ring box on the floor. "Looks good on you."

A giggle escapes her before his lips crash into hers, and she lets out a small moan when he leans her back against the bed. She frowns as he pulls away, his hand reaching back into the cardboard box. "What are you doing?" 

"I think there's a condom in here somewhere," he grins. 

"That is about ten years old," she grimaces. "I do not think it will be of much use." 

"So you don't want me to look for it?"

"We hardly ever use them as it is, Tony, so I don't see what difference it makes," she chuckles, "and besides, what I really want right now is for you to kiss your... fiancee." He swallows. His fiancee. They were actually going to do this. One day soon, they were going to be married. Husband and wife. "Is something wrong?"

He shakes his head. "I'm just thinking about how good that sounds. Fiancee."

"Hmm," she smirks, pulling him down for a kiss before she drops her lips close to his ear. Her warm breath tickles his skin as she whispers: "I know another sound you'll like, and it has nothing to do with words..."