A/N: Tony starts wearing glasses, and Ziva ends up having the most unproductive day of her career because of them.

Inspired by Michael Weatherly's look for Bull (this is embarrassing, why am I even admitting to this)

McGee's laugh breaks her concentration. Looking up she sees his mirth is directed at Tony. Tony, who had been quietly working, the steady rhythm of is hunt and peck typing technique almost matching the rhythm of her own touch typing. Tony, who is now glaring at McGee from behind dark-rimmed glasses.

When did he start wearing-

He turns towards her, glare still firmly in place, cautioning her not to join in with the probie.

Laughing at him is the last thing on her mind. His aviator sunglasses are one thing. He knows exactly how good he looks wearing them, and his smugness lowers some of his appeal. Not a lot, just enough to keep her libido in check and her hands to herself. These glasses are a whole different story, though.

"They're computer glasses, okay," he says.

"You're just getting old, like Gibbs," McGee says, casting a furtive glance at the empty desk in front of him as soon as the words leave his mouth.

"They block blue light, McScreen. You of all people should know that."

He taps the rim of his glasses with two fingers, conjuring up an undercover operation a lifetime ago; a pair of spy glasses, lots of naked skin, those fingers and his mouth, all over her body. She sips from the bottle of water on her desk, hoping it will cool down the heat rapidly rising inside of her.

"What happened to this job, anyway, all we seem to do these days is look at screens," he grumbles.

"You love watching the screen," Ziva says, worrying that staying quiet for much longer would make him suspicious.

"I love watching the silver screen. There's a difference."

Unable to resist the sudden magnetic pull he seems to have on her, Ziva walks over to his desk and leans against it.

Tony barely acknowledges her, continues typing with two fingers, and lets out a frustrated sigh pointing at the screen. "I didn't have to deal with computers when I first became a cop."

Ziva narrows her eyes. "How old are you, again?" She reaches a hand towards his head. "Is that a gray hair?"

He swats her hand away, scowling, then tries to look at his reflection in the monitor before turning towards her again. Ziva bites the inside of her cheeks, but knows she can't hide the laughter from her eyes.

He wags a finger at her, puts on a fake smile and says, "Funny, David." The fake smile slides from his face before turning towards his computer again.

A light chuckle escapes her lips, but then he readjusts the dark frames, scratches the stubble on his chin absentmindedly, and a tingle runs through her body. She swallows audibly. When he turns towards her at the sound, eyes ever so slightly narrowed behind those glasses, she wishes she could take off her sweater to let some excess body heat escape. She hadn't bothered with a bra when she pulled on a tank top that morning, though.

Would he comment on it, the way he used to?

"Can I help you?"

Her gaze flits to his lips and for a second she loses all train of thought. When she meets his eyes again, his brows are furrowed and he gives her the same intense look of curiosity he usually reserves for a difficult case.

Too distracted to keep up the banter, she shakes her head and slinks back to her own desk.

The rest of the day turns out to be one of the most unproductive days of her whole career. The glare from the skylight keeps reflecting in her partner's glasses, drawing her attention to him with every move he makes.

They really should do something about those skylights. Unless they are the reason he needs to wear glasses. In which case-

He catches her staring at him, again, and smirks. The only thing keeping her from jumping his bones—besides Gibbs occupying the desk next to hers—is the memory of her father's look of disappointment as he scolded her for getting caught while learning to tail a person of interest.

So much for being a ninja.

As the sun shifts and the skylight glare lessens and then disappears completely, the case file in front of her finally manages to hold her interest. The next hour is spent checking one of their suspect's backgrounds, the mundane task tempering the restlessness brewing inside her.

"Hey, send me everything you've got on Jameson."

She looks up out of habit, immediately regretting it when he slides the frames down his nose so he can look over the rim.

And it's hypnotizing, really, the way he's looking at her.

And it's ridiculous, really, because he's not looking at her any differently than usual.

Is he? No, it must be the glasses. Except, why would it be the glasses. She has never had a thing for glasses.

He tilts his head slightly, and there is that look of intense curiosity, again.

"Sure", Ziva says as flatly as possible, trying to regain some focus.

But then he pushes the frames up the bridge of his nose with his right index finger, still staring at her intently, and all the office sounds are drowned out by the blood rushing in her ears, the magnetic pull she felt earlier back in full force.

She shifts in her seat and bites the tip of her thumb. Maybe she needs to get it out off her system. Somehow. By herself, or…not.

Would he-

The ding of the elevator snaps her out of her reverie and their latest stare-off. She glances at McGee and Gibbs, relieved they haven't noticed anything. Tony, however, is still staring at her when she brings her attention back to her computer.

What did he ask for? Oh right, Jameson.

Ziva sends him the file as the elevator dings again, and she closes her eyes briefly, hoping she won't get stuck with him in the elevator. Not today. Not when she is feeling this restless, this distracted, this… She breathes out slowly, reminding herself it is already late in the afternoon and she won't have to see him all weekend. She is stronger than this.

Unfortunately, the ding of the elevator quickly shapes a Pavlovian reaction, making her look over at Tony every single time.

Perhaps she should take the stairs later.

The elevator traffic increases as people slowly, yet loudly—it is Friday, after all—file out of the bullpen. Her concentration is now thoroughly shot, again, and she wonders if she should ask Abby to go clubbing with her. Get drunk. Take the edge off that way.

But then she realizes Abby would ask McGee to join them. And, Tony. Jolts of electricity shoot down her body at the thought of a crowded dance floor and Tony, all sweaty, moving to the sound of the beat, inches from her. That wouldn't take the edge off, at all. And getting drunk would only make it worse.

Tony touches his glasses for the millionth time that day, and she wants to kiss him so hard that they will fog up. She touches her thumb to her lips wanting to taste his skin again. Wanting to know whether reality holds up to the memories that plague her far too often.

"Ziva!"

She startles and notices Tony is packing his gear blindly, eyes trained on her. And for the umpteenth time that day, as she turns to her left, she feels like she got caught red-handed. Her father would disown her.

"Go home," Gibbs repeats.

His gaze bores into her, and she briefly relives the moment when her superior in the IDF caught her and another soldier half-naked, in the back of a weapons carrier.

She sneaks another glance at Tony—who uncharacteristically appears to be taking his own sweet time to leave early on a Friday evening—and logs off, cursing blue light while jabbing at the monitor's off button.

By the time she gathers all her things, Tony is sauntering towards the elevator. Part of her wishes he would hurry up already, remembering her earlier fear of getting stuck with him in the tiny metal box. The other part hopes he'll wait for her, just so she can stand close to him and refresh her memory on what he smells like late in the afternoon.

He does hold the elevator—he is a gentleman…when he is not being a jerk—and she can't quite decipher the look on his face as she slides into place next to him. The lingering smell of his cologne is filed away in her memory for later for…reasons.

"Any plans for the weekend?" Ziva asks, as the doors close and their indistinct metallic reflections appear in front of them.

"Not really."

He shrugs nonchalantly, and their habit of having no sense of personal space makes his arm brush up against hers slowly. As the elevator shrinks in size and the temperature resembles summer in Tel Aviv, she fights the desire to slam the emergency button, shove her tongue down his throat, and climb him like a tree.

Would his knees hold up?

She stares at his reflection in front of her, both annoyed and relieved at the lack of detail.

"Probably watch a movie. You?"

He sounds casual, but she can feel his eyes on her. Looking up at him now would destroy what little common sense she has left, so she doesn't. Instead, she shrugs just as nonchalantly, leaning ever so slightly away from him to avoid brushing his arm once more.

"Catch up on some reading."

The ding signaling their arrival at ground floor sounds like sweet release, until an image of him and those damn glasses pushes to the forefront of her mind again. She pushes through the widening crack of the sliding doors, mumbling a see you later.

"That must be one hell of a book," he calls after her.

And she knows. She knows the wheels in his head are turning. But she doesn't know how to feel about that. Or what to do about it.

Should she even do something about it?

The drive home was as blurry as the words dancing on the pages in front of her. The picture her mind keeps conjuring up of Tony is crystal clear, though.

Ziva throws the book aside with a sigh, checks the time.

She wonders what movie Tony is watching.

She wonders if he is wearing those glasses.

She wonders if he is wearing that OSU shirt, the one he let her borrow at work once when she didn't have a spare.

She wonders what exactly she thinks she is doing, getting in her car and driving over to his place unannounced.

She wonders if she will be able to come up with a valid excuse before knocking on his door.

"Ziva? What are you doing here?"

Valid excuse; no.

Glasses and OSU shirt; yes.

She manages to sound casual, despite the visual distraction. "I thought you might want some company."

"Really, because the way you bolted from the elevator, it felt like you couldn't get away from me fast enough."

Oh…right, she was trying to stay away from him.

She pushes past him with an undignified huff, not waiting for an invitation—or for common sense to kick in and convince her to drive back home—and plops down on his couch, refusing to look at him and his glasses and his shirt and his scruff.

Oh, maybe it's the stubble, she has always had a thing for-

The cold bottle of beer against her cheek startles her, and is more proof of the complete lack of situational awareness she has been experiencing all day. Seeing the smug grin on his face, she snatches the beer out of his hand and glares.

She pushes down the realization that she used to be better at dealing with sexual frustration, and takes a swig from the alcoholic drink, wishing it was something much stronger than beer.

"What's gotten your panties in a twist today, Ziva?"

She feels her ears burn at the question, and curses his choice of words as he sits down next to her, radiating heat and smugness and…she downs half of her beer.

"Did the car in front of you break for a yellow light on the way to work?" He takes a sip from his own beer and continues studying her with a smirk. "Or did the barista have the audacity of smiling at you when he handed you your coffee?"

She can't decide whether to smack the smirk from his face, or her lips against his.

Tony sips his beer again before placing the bottle on the coffee table, and sitting back, tucking a leg underneath him, and facing her.

His voice sounds husky when he says, "Did I do something to get your panties." He pauses as the tip of his tongue wets his lips, then continues with a glint in his eyes, "In a twist."

She wishes she could say no.

She wishes she could look away.

She wishes she had taken her sweater off back home.

She wishes he would remove those damn glasses.

But then he tilts his head, grins, and does in fact remove the rims.

And it is infinitely worse because he places one of the temple tips between his teeth and smiles lasciviously, looking down at her with hooded eyes.

And somehow the magnetic pull he has had on her all day, has drawn her closer towards him and clouded her mind once more.

"Why are you here, Ziva?"

She is still trying to read that look in his eyes when her mouth betrays her. "Because your glasses are evaporating whatever common sense I have left."

He quirks an eyebrow and slides the glasses back into place. "What was your common sense telling you?"

"To keep my distance."

She cringes inwardly at her honesty. But then the look on his face shifts as he contemplates her answer and his gaze drifts to her lips and back.

"Common sense isn't always common…or sensible" he says, and leans his whole body so deliciously close.

So close, their breaths mingle.

So close, she does not have to rely on memory to remember how good he smells.

So close, all her nerve endings tingle.

"I know, I have worked with you for almost eight years." The tease comes out more seductively than she intended.

This is such a bad idea.

The narrowing of his eyes accentuates the desire so obvious in his dilated pupils, and when he speaks, his breath accentuates every word against her lips. "You really think insulting me right now is a good idea?"

"I do not think any of this is a good idea," she murmurs as she closes the distance between them, grasping handfuls of OSU shirt and pulling him closer.

The kiss is heated, frenzied, his hands tangling in her hair, just like she remembered.

Him pulling back, cradling her face in his hands is not at all like she remembered.

Tony licks and bites his bottom lip, and her whole body leans forward, because common sense has well and truly left the building, and she wants to be the one to lick and bite that bottom lip.

But his hands hold her back and she is thoroughly confused now, because he is the king of one-night-stands and meaningless sex. At least he was, years ago.

Ziva wonders if she should have gone clubbing, after all. She could have picked up some stranger, and this, whatever this was, wouldn't have happened and there wouldn't be any confusion.

Except, the mere thought of a one-night-stand with a stranger slows her racing heart and fills her with emptiness. She can't even fathom letting a stranger run his hands and lips all over her. Not after the way Tony managed to be the focus of her attention all day today.

Well, not just today.

"Ziva, I know you want this now, but…what about tomorrow, or the day after that?"

She sighs in frustration, shaking her head. Before she has a chance to say anything, though, he takes off his glasses. Her gaze flits towards the dark rimmed spectacles dangling from his left hand.

Tony breathes out a laugh and points the glasses at her. "You have a thing for glasses."

He is goading her, but she can't help herself. "I have never had a thing for glasses."

"You only want me for my glasses, admit it."

Ziva reaches for the frames, but he holds them above his head. She launches herself up and forwards, grabbing the glasses and pushing him down onto his back in one smooth motion.

"I do not want you for your glasses, I want you…" She furrows her brow as she meets his gaze. "For…" She licks her lips, trying to come up with words, any words.

But she can't, so she does the next best thing; dropping her forehead to his chest and cussing into his shirt in Hebrew.

Tony chuckles. "Wow, this is a real eye-opener."

She slides up his chest so they are face to face and gives him a questioning look.

His hands make their way underneath her sweater and burn holes right through the cotton of her tank top.

"If I had known my wearing glasses would have this effect on you, I never would've had laser eye surgery."

"That makes no sense." She brushes her nose against his as she drops the glasses on the coffee table. "We did not know each other back then."

Tony's hands slide upwards dragging her sweater up and she helps remove it. Finally. It is still far too hot, though.

"Well, hindsight is always 20/20," he murmurs, pulling her flush against him.

His hands slip under the thin layer of cotton covering her back. The warmth from the sweater that had bothered her all day, fades in comparison to the trail of lava his hands leave seeping into her skin, down to her very core.

He kisses her heatedly, and she rocks against him, eliciting a moan from his lips. The sound pierces through the haze of lust that is clouding her mind. She runs a hand through his hair, caresses his cheek with the other, then breaks the kiss to look at him.

He makes a disappointed sound in the back of his throat.

She can't hide the mischievous grin gracing her face as she turns his own words against him, and in a sultry voice asks, "Tony, I know you want this now, but what about tomorrow?"

He purses his lips, the corners of his eyes crinkle. "Tomorrow, we do this all over again." He kisses her cheek, one of his hands trails down below the waistband of her jeans. "And again the next day." He places a kiss behind her ear, her hand slips down to rest on his chest. "And again the day after that." He kisses her jawline, she sighs. "And again." He peppers kisses up and down her neck, she closes her eyes, focusing on his lips and his heart pounding against the palm of her hand.

He pulls back, meets her gaze, eyes sparkling. His voice is low and rough when he says, "And again, and again, and again."

This feels so much better than she remembered.

She shudders, inhales deeply as she nuzzles his cheek, his distinct smell making her stomach flutter and her brain shut down.

He whispers in her ear, "It's common sense, really."

She lets out a throaty laugh, realizing he was right; resisting this had never made any sense.

So she does the sensible thing she should have done years ago, and gives in to her every desire.