A/N: I'm rating this M just to be safe, because though I don't intend for any future chapters to venture into graphic territory, I'd rather not accidentally offend anyone's eyes. That being said, I know Ziva's gun isn't a revolver, but this chapter was inspired by Madonna's song "Revolver", and thus warranted this title. Enjoy, and let me know what you think!

Last I checked, I still owned nothing.

My love's a revolver
My sex is a killer
Do you wanna die happy?

-Madonna

Tony's thankful for the headphones she's wearing, blasting full-force and blocking the sound of his clunky approach from her ears. And the sound of the lock clicking into place behind him, after he gives the room another quick once-over. The noise from rounds she shoots rapid-fire into the plywood targets don't exactly hurt, either, and his ears are buzzing with them in the few seconds it's been since he shut the door behind him. The place is delightfully empty, save for Ziva, and the counter that separates the markswoman from her targets gives him ideas that definitely aren't for airing in polite company. But the second he slides his arms beneath hers the shot ricochets off the wall and she snaps one fist up so close to his face he almost doesn't catch it, and all of a sudden ambushing her at the firing range doesn't seem like the brilliant idea it'd been when he'd imagined it at lunch. Her reflexes are sharper than he'd anticipated (Jesus, had she been that fast yesterday?) and her sig is still live and his impromptu booty call goes from dumb move to extremely stupid, stupid, STUPID idea, Tony! faster than it took her to almost punch his nose inside-out.

"You are flirting with disaster, DiNozzo," she hisses through her teeth. It makes the hairs on the back of his neck prickle.

But he's got one arm wrapped tight around her waist, the other hand threading his fingers through her loosening fist, and he figures that as long as he's taking his life in his hands, he might as well do it up right.

"Easy, Zee-vah." "How many holes're you going to punch through me for ruining that shot?" he asks, his voice a husky rumble in her ear. Tony guides the hand he's captured back in front of her, wraps her fingers back around the grip. His fingers tug the headphones from her ears and return to splay over her stomach. Her muscles shift and stiffen like the rest of her, taut and pressed flush against him.

"That depends," she growls, "on how large you'd like those holes to be."

He glances once more around the room, for good measure, and slides one finger over hers on the trigger.

"Then by all means, don't let me distract you." Tony smiles, lining up the shot for her. Ziva allows it for the moment; she adjusts against him, holds herself up a little straighter, and Tony is suddenly painfully aware of her ass as she shifts in his arms. Her curves fit against his hips as if she'd been poured into him. "Nice form." He breathes in the sweet spot at the back of her neck and fires.

The recoil ripples through her into him and he absorbs it, the shockwave pressing her just right against the tightening in his jeans and he judges by the way she straightens her spine again that she knows exactly what he's playing at by now. Her friction against him is having exactly the effect he'd anticipated. She smiles, and he knows she's feeling those effects, too.

"Right shoulder. Not bad," she says, completely composed, but her eyes narrow and she shifts again to line up the next shot.

Maybe this wasn't such an awful idea after all.

"Let's try again," he says, "You could do with a little more…guidance, Probie."

His finger tightens just the slightest over hers on the trigger. The hand splayed on her stomach slides downward.

"You are playing with pliers." Her voice is low, restrained, and he knows it's only a matter of inches before he reaches the spot that'll turn that steely control of hers breathless.

Tony grins, tasting the skin just below her earlobe. "David, I believe the term is playing with fire—"

She lets the recoil push her back and augments the force with some of her own, grinding against him just a little, but enough for his thoughts to transfer from his head to his—ahem—other head.

"Ha."

"Right pectoral," he says, "Better."

"Is it?" she asks, shifting again. He hears rather than sees her smirk.

Mmmm.

"Yep." Tony releases his grip on her sig and slides his hand up her arm, brushing along the inside. The skin on the back of her neck prickles. "Time for something a bit more challenging."

He's careful with his next move, the thought of her switching out the ballistics dummy for a live target still very much present at the back of his mind. But so far Ziva has been more than responsive, and his mind isn't thinking quite so loudly after that last shot anyway. He dips his fingertips beneath the low-slung waist of her pants, asking permission. His other hand slips beneath her shirt and glides over her stomach, bypassing the toned waves of muscle to work under the wire of her bra.

She leans her whole body into him now, shoulder blades jutting into his chest as the rest of her melts back against him. "Careful, Tony," she warns, a breathy rasp creeping around the edges of the words, "Or I may not be able to control where these bullets end up."

"Ooh, dangerous." He grins against her neck, testing her flesh with his teeth and then soothing the marks with his tongue. "I might like dangerous."

"That depends," Ziva leans her head back to allow him greater access to her pulse point, and shivers when he kisses it just right. "I suppose you'll die happy?"

"Eyes on the target, David." Tony brings one hand up to straighten her arms again, keeping the live weapon leveled straight ahead of them. The other makes short work of the buttons on her slacks, and dips lower until he feels the satin edge of her panties. His fingers slide south. "Better to go out satisfied than frustrated."