They started up the staircase, in sync as usual, but apart. Then Ziva reached for his hand. That half-second seeking him out, drawing him close, wanting him with her—well, it was everything. Their serendipitous first meeting to the phone call they were about to make, life snapped vividly to alignment with the simple gesture.

It made Tony feel like a total jerk.

For the past week, he'd been secretly hoping Gibbs or the director—heck, SecNav—would put the kibosh on the plan. Using government property for personal communications was against some NCIS rule, right? But Ziva had made the request, Vance had honored the strange position he occupied in the David family mosaic by approving it, and now—

Tony would have her six, his own doubts be damned. They were in this, every step, together.

Despite their joined hands, he jogged to keep up with her. "You ready?"

"Yes." Her mouth sealed flat again after the rushed utterance. Open. "Are you?" Shut.

"I was born ready!"

An arched eyebrow broke rank with her guarded expression, questioning his enthusiasm.

"White Lightning. 1973. Gator McKlusky. 'The good, they die young!' Not Burt Reynolds's best, but it-"

"Tony."

"Right. Focus. Got it."

Was her palm slick with nerves, or his? Probably both. The deserted office at their backs, they stepped onto the platform. Ziva unlocked the door with her eye. A technician dialed the Tel Aviv number. They were doing this. They were commandeering MTAC for a chat with the Director of Mossad.

"Abba?"

Oh, and Ziva's father. One in the same guy.

Static hissed and popped on the wall-to-wall screen.

"Abba? Can you hear us—"

"Ziva, there is no need to shout. I am here." Out of the snow, from across the world, emerged an old man. Older than two years should have aged him. More white than grey around the temples; deeper lines etched into sun-leathered skin. A milder gaze? Maybe it was the spotty satellite connection. A zebra didn't change his stripes, especially if the zebra was Eli David.

"Shalom, Abba."

"Shalom, my daughter. You look well."

No thanks you!

Tony kept the snark to himself, despite the awkward pause—a clarion call to his defensive humor. The silence was punctuated only by beeps and whirs of technology on their side; the director seemed to be in a wood-paneled study, alone.

The corners of Ziva's mouth twitched. Reflex, not sentiment. "Thank you."

Eli nodded and did not force her hesitancy, instead shifted his focus. "I see Agent DiNozzo is joining us."

Tony ignored the displeasure in the elder's tone. "Eli, hi. It's been awhile. Is that a new tan?"

Her fingers flexed and tightened within in his grip. Behave. "We apologize for the early hour there. I wished to speak to you before Shabbat."

"How thoughtful of you, but it is no trouble. With age comes a new routine. I am up before the sun most days."

"So that's where Ziva gets it." Tony released a reckless, nervous stream of chuckles. "For running, you know? She gets up early, too, t-to do that." His eyes darted between the Davids. Neither seemed amused.

Eli coughed, clearing dust and gravel. Years of barking orders had caught up to him, if not the cigars. "Ziva owes her discipline to us. The Mossad's training."

Us?

So sharp was the scoff, it scored Tony's throat on the way out. He'd tried to be civil, for Ziva. He really had. And it'd lasted a whopping two minutes. Who said miracles didn't happen?

"Ah, I see how it is. You're all about taking credit, Eli, but what about the blame? Where should that fall?"

There was no trick of the connection. Shadows sliced across the older man's face. His mouth flattened. He leaned in, dominating the frame. "Tread carefully, Agent DiNozzo. You understand little of what you accuse me."

"I understand plenty. What I don't get is how you—her father, in case that's somehow slipped your mind—couldn't spare a few agents from your stable to rescue your only living child from that God-forsaken—"

"That does not concern you," Eli roared.

"The hell is doesn't!"

Ziva threw up her arms, as if keeping them from a physical fight. "Enough, both of you. Abba." She regarded his looming figure with her spine tall, chin high. Ever the soldier. "Tony and I are engaged. That is why we have contacted you. We will be married in October."

From Eli's reaction, she might have given him the weather forecast. Mostly overcast, a chance of storms. His features, wrinkles, emotion smoothed banal. Even his words lacked feeling. "I suppose I should not be surprised."

"Actually, it's pronounced congratulations," Tony gritted out, signalling to the technician. "Shalom, Eli."

The over-sized screen returned to static, and Ziva rounded on him. "Why did you do that?"

He gaped. "Seriously? You need me to explain?"

"Yes."

"Fine. Your dad was being an ass, babe."

"You baited him," she challenged, chin thrusting.

"And he took it." Hazel eyes blazed into hers. "He knows what he did to you."

Her gaze returned fire. "This was not about getting a confession. I knew he would not... I was only trying to—"

"What? What do you need?" Tony stepped closer, sliding his hand over the silk of her shirt to her waist. He was under the impression this was a courtesy. More courtesy than Eli deserved, at that. Nothing more.

Ziva glanced up at him—there and gone. A puff of her coconut and honey shampoo wafted in the draft. "It does not matter now." Then she was striding, fast, for the door.

But he saw it. Glimpsed in that half-glance, before she tore herself away from him: the spring and run of a single, plump tear across her cheek.

The pang of guilt struck, silvery and cold like the remnants of adrenaline in his veins, as they left the Navy Yard. It festered in his gut, fed by her silence and straight stare on the drive north through the evening glow.

A console separated them, mere inches, yet Tony bit his tongue. Literally. Forcing a conversation would stoke the embers of her mood, or be cut off with monosyllabic rebukes. The therapist would approve of them "de-escalating" before talking it out, but all he wanted was to fix this. Peeks at his partner's reflection in the car window fanned his frustration. The glare of passing streetlamps illuminated not anger in her face, that beautiful face he fell asleep gazing into each night, but a crater of desolate ache.

Eli, you bastard.

He fought the urge to swing the car toward Dulles, hop a plane to Israel, and challenge the spy puppeteer to a 'conference room' rematch. He had more than enough ammo—nightmares, anxiety, month-long funks—to go round after round with the heavyweight. And he'd win, too. Again.

"I can hear your teeth grinding, Tony." Her warm fingers brushed his jaw, bumping along stubble and coiled tension. He unclenched.

"Your suffering in silence is pretty loud, too, Ziva."

Her hand stilled at his neck, dropping away and folding with its pair in her lap. "I am not suffering. I simply do not have anything else to say."

Like hell you don't.

Tony allowed the thread to dangle. They were speaking to each other, though. Sort of. "Well, do you have an opinion on dinner? I'm starvin' like Lee Marvin." His upturned fist hovered above the gear shift.

They were in the middle of a rock-paper-scissors tournament, the ultimate loser of which would move his or her possessions across the city into one shared apartment prior to the wedding (he was confident it was going to be her doing the packing).

Smirking, Ziva set. They went three brisk rounds, his rock taking two. She growled; he whooped triumphantly.

"And that makes it DiNozzo 32, David 26."

"You cheated."

"I don't need to cheat," he countered, keeping an eye on the road. "You're just a sore loser who's having Thai tonight."

A bounce of her shoulders made a noise against the leather seat. "I would have chosen that anyway."

"How 'bout you choose where we sleep?" Tony found her thigh in the dark, squeezed. Her muscles tightened in response.

"How about I let you sleep with me tonight?"

Moisture evacuated his mouth. "Your place it is."

One by one, Tony toed off his dress loafers, shed his suit jacket, and loosened the tie knot from his throat. A couple stumbling steps and he collapsed onto the bed, releasing a gargantuan sigh that was part exhaustion, part pillowtop-induced bliss. He'd helped her pick it out, after Somalia, without knowing his future self would someday also reap its benefits.

He dragged his mouth from the duvet. "Ziva!"

Boots grazed the wood floor, closer and closer. Her left hip swerved into view, a sliver of thigh, bare knee, and—yes—all of her. Ziva owed the bedroom doorway, wine glass in hand, glossy ringlets pulled over one shoulder. He was a lucky man.

"Was shouting necessary, Tony?"

"Wherever we end up living, this bed is coming with us."

Her throaty chuckles electrified the skin on the nape of his neck. "I believe that earns me a point." She tipped the glass. Ruby liquid rushed forward, greedy for her mouth.

"You wish." Transfixed, he bit his bottom lip. "That wine looks good."

"It is."

"Can I get a taste?"

Ziva set the empty glass on the nightstand, the last drops going down her throat with a deep, visible swallow.

Miffed, if a little turned on, Tony flopped back, tucking an arm under his head. "You need to repeat kindergarten, Da-veed."

"I am fluent in nine languages—why would I need that?" The bed jostled; some part of her—a soft, yielding part—bumped his knee. Everything below his belt was now tingling.

"I meant you need to learn to, uh, share." His stance lacked emphasis. Ziva stretched out alongside him, not unlike a Greek goddess on a daybed, plumping her lips, tinted and gently smiling. A lucky man, indeed.

"I do not like to share what I love."

The brew of her languid words and sweet, heady breath overwhelmed the circuits in his brain that would have furthered their banter, supplied a witty comebacker. All that remained was primal wiring and a longing he often wondered about: how it started under his ribs and spread, a good poison, to the pads of his fingers, the base of his throat, the very bottom of his spine where it gave way to his derrière. His body on her drug.

"Ziva..." Her name danced within the parentheses of their bodies. She answered, leaning, her mouth dead-on aim with his mouth, an infernal latch sealing out air and thought.

His fingers dove through her hair, weaving strands into reigns, while her hands sought a lower destination on his form, eliciting arches and premature thrusts. Always so eager, his Ziva.

Tony said as much, gasped over her jaw, planting a kiss there, too; he wasn't complaining.

Golden sparks of mischief permeated the midnight of her blown-out pupils. "We must hurry. The food will be here in 30 minutes or less."

A bout of mutual chuckles overcame them like a rain shower, shocking and head-clearing. For him, at least. Made room for dangling threads...

"Hey, you know what I was thinking?"

Ziva hummed, unbuttoning his shirt and nibbling his neck simultaneously.

"Even if I hadn't baited Eli—sorry about that, by the way—there was no excuse for how he reacted. 'I shouldn't be surprised' or whatever? I mean, come on, what is that? Not father-of-the-bride material."

Tony's rambling had a cooling effect on his fiancée. Her ministrations stalled and she regarded him with a look he knew well. Seriously, now?

"Right. Sorry." Using the hand tangled in her curls, he coaxed her back, double-kissed her parted lips. "But it's just that—"

"Tony! I told you, it does not matter," Ziva huffed, reclaiming her points of contact from his skin.

His grip merely shifted, molding to the side of her face. Keeping her with him. In this, together. "Well, it matters to me because it obviously upset you. We can try calling him again tomorrow, if you want." Though his teeth might be ground-down stubs by the conversations' end.

Ziva lapsed into the faraway stare from the ride home, narrowed in on the pattern of his tie, yet somewhere beyond him as well, beyond the bedroom and the apartment that might become theirs, beyond the city itself. Eventually she blinked and spoke toward his chest. "No. That would not change anything. Abba is...Abba."

"Yeah."

"He will not change, either."

"But you still want his blessing," Tony said, circling the rise of her cheekbone with his thumb.

The corners of her eyes creased as she met his gaze. "Why do you say that?"

"Because for two years you barely mention the guy's name, unless it's on the therapist's couch or in a string of Hebrew I don't understand. Then we get engaged, and after Gibbs and the team, Eli's the next person you want to tell the good news." He wrapped a ringlet around her ear, testing out a smile. "Plus, I am a highly-trained investigator trained to pick up on the subtleties of these things, after all."

"Perhaps too well trained." A rueful admission.

Tony preened. "Wow, I was just bluffing."

Swatting his shoulder, Ziva released a noisy tumble of breath. The creases smoothed. Her lips lifted, as did her hands, sliding his face between the matching hollows of her palms. "You asked me what I need, yes?"

"I did."

"I need to marry you, Tony DiNozzo, never mind what my father or anyone else thinks. I need you."

Mingled determination and grace laid bare to him. Only him. He couldn't look away. Even as his heartbeat took up, pounding out joy and relief where she rested her elbows, steadying herself by him, shuffling into the shadow of his body.

"I can definitely help you with that." The promise whispered through his painful grin, into her hair—just as the doorbell chimed.

A/N: Let me how you liked it, if you're so inclined. :) Also, this is a stand alone for now, but maybe not forever.