Tony sipped his third glass of wine, though he could probably count it as his first if he was measuring by which bottle it had come from, unless he… He concentrated on feeling very warm and comfortable as he sat at the kitchen counter in Ziva's apartment, watching her fix dinner. He'd tried to help, but he'd been forcibly removed from the proceedings after five minutes of honest effort that she claimed was intentionally counterproductive. It was probably for the best, as he would have just tossed the steaks in the oven rather than marinate them with the rest of the wine from the first bottle and some mysterious spices. Who knew cumin was more than just a decorative dust-gatherer on the spice rack? Come to think of it, had he ever used anything off the spice rack that hot secretary from Philly PD had given him the year she'd been his Secret Santa? Had he ever gotten particularly lucky with that? The Secret Santa, not the secretary, who had been a cold fish the one night they'd spent together. He always found it hard to have a good time with a woman who just wanted to lie there while he did all the work. Ziva would never just…

Damn dangerous wine-influenced thoughts. He tilted his head as she leaned down to place the steaks in the oven on a broiling pan. "Hmmmm."

"What?"

He stared guiltily at the tiled countertop. "Oh, I was just thinking…"

"About what?"

Don't say 'your ass', don't say 'your ass,' don't say… He took a sip of his wine to buy some time before saying, "Delores was really happy. Wasn't she?"

"Yes," she replied curtly.

Apparently he was going to be getting these brief answers until he took the bull by the horns. "You, uh, haven't yelled at me for picking up the phone yet."

"I have not yet decided if Aunt Nettie came to the conclusion that we are living together on her own based solely on your decision to answer the phone or if you offered any encouragement."

"I don't think she gave me enough time to say anything substantial."

"Sounds like her." She held out her empty glass and he refilled it. "This was a good choice."

"Italian, of course. All the best wines are."

She shook her head as if telling herself not to bother arguing, which was not what he'd expected. She seemed strangely reluctant to open any further conversation about Aunt Nettie. Just as he was about to apologize again for answering the phone, she asked, "Will you eat any of the asparagus if I make it?"

"Well, uh…"

"It is not healthy for you to eat so few vegetables."

"I'm okay with some vegetables." He tried to peer into the tiny window on the oven door, but the light was off. "That wasn't just balled up foil you put in there to mess with me, right?"

"Potatoes are not a vegetable."

"They should be."

"Will you at least try eating some asparagus? You can slather it in Hollandaise so you will not even taste it."

"It'll still make my pee smell funny." After a beat and a disgusted grimace, he added, "Too much information."

She nodded. "Most likely a result of speaking with Aunt Nettie."

"Uh, how are you two related?"

"Vaguely. Her husband is my grandmother's distant cousin. She does tend to ramble on, but she has a good heart." She opened the oven for a moment, letting out a delicious aroma. "Something like you, I suppose."

He inhaled deeply before she shut the door. "I smell like steak?"

"No, you…forget it."

The look she was giving him was making him uncomfortable, so he stood and walked to the window across the room. "Really coming down."

"Perhaps you should go to your car and get your bag now."

"You, uh, you're inviting me to stay?"

"Based on how many glasses of wine you have had, you are not giving me much choice."

"I could drive just fine after a lot more than this. And by drive, I mean successfully call for a cab and sit comfortably in the back." He set his half-empty glass on the counter and walked toward the door. "Anyway, it's not so bad out here."

"In the hallway?" He turned and accepted his coat from Ziva. "Hurry up. The steaks will be ready in another two minutes."

He was still working on some clever parting words when he realized the door was closed and he was standing in the hall outside her apartment, holding his coat. Right. He would be allowed back in, wouldn't he? He'd left his keys inside so… He knocked on the door, which was opened a moment later. "I forgot my keys."

"I would have buzzed you back in."

"Well, it wouldn't've made much sense to get down there and not be able to get into my car." He reached past her to where he had left what he wanted on the small table inside the door. "Plus, I didn't wanna interrupt you doing kitcheny things."

"You mean like you are doing now?"

He leaned against the doorframe, dangling the keys from his finger. "You did say I had two minutes."

"Ninety seconds." He stumbled as she gave him a little shove. "Go."

"I'm…" The door closed before he could confirm his intention of leaving immediately. He took the stairs to maximize the time before he'd have to go out into the snow. It was deceptively pretty, fluttering down on the front walkway, filling in the footprints he'd…why weren't there any visible footprints? And where was his car? "Some storm," he muttered, taking a deep breath and rushing out the door.

Halfway through clearing thick, fluffy snow off his trunk, he remembered there was no reason for him to be holding his breath and exhaled. Was he really only on his third glass of wine? He quickly completed his task and retrieved his bag with a minimum of snow getting into the trunk. Knowing that it was a huge mistake the moment the thought entered his head, he collected a handful from the banister leading back up to the front door before letting himself in. His hands were red and cold by the time he arrived at Ziva's door. He dropped his bag, but didn't remove his coat; no reason to add an extra step on the very likely chance that she threw him out the door. Or window. Could he survive a fall from the third story? In spite of his strong instinct toward self-preservation, he was standing in the kitchen as Ziva looked into the oven. "I underestimated how long the steaks needed. How is the snow?"

"Oh, it's, uh, deep and, uh, cold…" He took one last opportunity to breathe before stuffing the handful of snow down the back of her shirt.

"Shit!"

He ducked just in time to miss catching a large fork in the face as she danced around the room on tiptoe, attempting to get the snow away from her skin. He was laughing too hard to duck again when something damp and blue caught him in the face. Wait, wasn't Ziva wearing a blue shirt? He pulled back the fabric to clear his field of vision. "Hello, blue shirt!"

His secondary instinct for looking at hot women wearing minimal clothing prompted him to follow the sound of a slamming door down the hallway. Self-preservation finally stepped in just as his hand contacted the doorknob. Okay, that was close. Of course, since he was already going to die, at least he could die happy. The door reopened before he'd confirmed that he really was going to charge into Ziva's bedroom while she was changing. "Okay, now you're definitely not wearing a bra."

His back hit the wall as she shoved him out of the way none too gently. "I suppose you can tell because I am cold, yes?"

"I, uh, thought maybe you were just, uh, excited?" He wasn't able to get a better look as she pulled on a sweatshirt that had been draped over the back of the sofa. "Look, I knew it was a bad idea, but how many chances do I really get to surprise you?"

She whirled on him with one of the evilest eyes he'd ever encountered, but it quickly softened. "You would be…surprised." Without so much as another shove, she walked back into the kitchen. "The steaks are ready."

As he finally slipped out of his coat, he had time to wonder why there was no bloodshed. He was not yet drunk enough to ask why, but given a few more glasses of wine… "Shouldn't you be threatening me with scary Moussad things right now?"

She passed a plate that contained two delicious looking steaks across the counter, effectively distracting him from asking any further questions that were likely to get him tortured. "Just put this on the table and sit."

In spite of the tempting aroma, he returned to pick up the baked potatoes while she uncorked the one bottle of wine she'd actually asked him to get. Although he knew more wine was probably not the wisest course of action at this point, he accepted the new glass without hesitation. If he was drunk when she did decide to attack, maybe it would dull the pain. She probably just didn't want too many leftovers.

He was well on his way to obliging this presumed motive when he realized it was probably rude to continue shoveling food into his mouth without making any attempt at conversation. "This is good."

She raised an eyebrow and finished chewing and swallowing a small mouthful. "Good. I was worried you were just hungry because it has been so long since we had lunch."

"S'really…" He made an effort to swallow a bite he probably should have cut in half. "Really good. Everything you make is good."

He knew he'd had too much to drink, because it almost looked like she was blushing when she said, "Thank you."

The meal continued in silence until he was unable to stop himself from saying, "I really would like to know why you aren't digging a shallow grave for me right now."

"Why would I…?"

He cut her off, "I talked to your aunt. I got comfy in your apartment, in your bed. I shoved snow down your back. You should be adding my internal organs to the menu instead of making sure my steak is cooked to my liking." He took another bite and spoke around it, "Which it is."

Her hand settled on his, so he loosened his grip on his fork. "After what you did today…"

"I keep telling you, that was nothing!"

"It meant everything!"

He found himself incapable of looking away. "Why do I get the feeling we're not talking about Knee-High Cherry Pie anymore?"

"Well…"

Nettie sat down beside the telephone without so much as a glance at Morty, who was still going on, "…not enough that we had to be up all hours. Now you have to call her at five in the morning! You know that DC is on the same time as Brooklyn!"

"I just want to find out…ssshh! It's ringing!"

"Ahh!" Morty waved his hand dismissively and went back to reading one of his many papers. Why he had to have so many papers each day…

The line abruptly connected. "Yes?"

"Shalom, Zivaleh! Still having a blizzard, are you? We get the satellite news, plus Benji called from the deli not long ago to tell me they got almost twenty-six inches! Such good boys, making sure the neighborhood still has a place to eat in such bad weather!"

"Aunt Nettie, it is not that I do not enjoy talking with you, but…"

"Why are you whispering? Speak up, Zivaleh! I'm not as young as I used to be!"

She sighed. "It is rather early here."

Suddenly hearing what she'd wanted, Nettie replied, "Yes, sorry. I just got so excited hearing about the snow. Well, I'll let you two sleep. Shalom!"

"Shalom."

Nettie clapped her hands together. "Morty, I heard snoring!"

"Poor girl even answers the phone in her sleep. That bastard Eli really did…" he trailed off in an angry mutter.

Ignoring the cynicism from her husband, Nettie bustled toward the kitchen. "I should make something nice to send them, my Mandel Bread maybe. Oy, and I'll have to double the size of the mishloach manot…"

"Purim isn't for two months!" Morty shouted from the living room.

Nettie was already gathering ingredients as she talked to herself, "If Tony likes my Mandel Bread, I'll have to see if he likes apricots so I know if he'll eat my Hamantaschen…"