A/N: So it's finally over. I'm going to cry. This thing has been like my baby, and now it's all grown up! tear Hopefully you all like it, I think it's a suitably understated ending. Please tell me what you think, I hope to hear everybody's opinion.

I'm not convinced 'unspool' is a word but I liked the sound of it, so I apologise to any grammar Nazis who might feel upset.

I'd like to take the opportunity to thank all my amazing reviewers, who I would individually list but there are bazillions of you so instead I offer you a virtual hug. You've been outstanding.

Till next time!

Xx Lola


On the way home, unlike any other day in the past two months, he finds himself standing in the checkout queue with a packet of Peanut M&Ms, simply because she hated them. The crispy ones were more to her taste, and the consistent crunching of the biscuit centre made him crazy. Either we both go plain or we deal with it, she had said crossly. He'd sat beside her on the couch and delved once again into the peanut ones, if only to drown out the noise as she continued her Cookie Monster-like attack on the coloured pellets. He glared at her, she glared at him, and both crunched away, refusing to back down.

That night, both went to bed fuming.

He really doesn't know why he hasn't thought of how stupid it was before.

He pays and leaves, as the sky opens and raindrops begin their descent to the earth. He looks up in time to see the blue slowly erased by the grey of the cloud, an act of closure which he finds ethereally calm. He turns to walk to the car, but he notices a gap in the sky; a streak of yellow light where no cloud has dared travel, and he understands in that instant why humans hold faith in religion.

At his apartment, the door is ajar; he draws his gun and sidles around the door. He doesn't notice her at first, but the river of hair straightened and tied in a ponytail difficult to miss.

'You can put it away, Tony.' She swings off her barstool and turns to face him.

In that moment, just in the second she meets his gaze and he holsters his gun, he hates her. He hates her for not disarming the bomb in time; for not saving Lila when she should have. He hates the dinners and the calmness and the concern; he hates her.

But above all, he hates that he can't function without her.

And he opens his mouth and pours out the anger, the hate. He takes all of it, and pours it into her, if only that she should listen, and understand what it is he feels. He yells at her for not saving Lila, for not fixing a case he could normally have solved; for making him believe he was fixed when the cracks are still showing. He gets her angry, so angry that she begins to scream back, shouting abuse in multiple languages and defending his accusations so emphatically that she deliberately invades his personal space, concentrating the noise so loudly both are almost oblivious to the other's comments. They continue to scream for a good five minutes, dragging up whatever past grievances they can, ignoring the banging of walls from neighbours and the crying of a baby next door. He yells at her for the time she threw the stapler at him; she counters with the series of events that saw them locked in a freight container for a whole day. They get each other angry, to furious, to the downright mad, neither prepared to back down. Then Ziva, in an uncharacteristic loss of control, picks up a pot plant from the counter and smashes it against the wall.

Suddenly, both are quiet.

He feels it, like a click, in the three millimetres of space between them. He grabs her shoulders and slams her into the wall, searing a kiss over her mouth, sandwiching her body up against his. She grabs the back of his head and kisses him so soundly that he grinds his leg between hers and both stumble sideways as they make towards the couch, bumping into various pieces of furniture along the way. He tugs her hair loose, feels it unspool against his cheek. He wraps his arms so tightly around her that he fleetingly wonders if he will bruise her; but then she runs her hands down his spine and he stops thinking; he stops thinking about anything at all. He pushes her down on the couch, only to have his collar grabbed as he is pulled down on top of her.

He's lying with her on the couch, hand tangled in her hair, lips sealed over hers; and he feels that the world, for once, is free of noise and pain.


She's gone when he wakes up, but he doesn't expect anything more. He drives to work and goes down to autopsy to be with the second cousin identifying Lila, who thanks him quietly for doing everything he could, as she clamps her handkerchief over her mouth. He watches as Ducky opens the drawer and slides her burnt body out; the woman gasps softly and turns away.

He doesn't. He looks at her face; the tanned porcelain skin, burned and bruised, the wild curly hair singed to almost nothing, the death written upon her face as she concludes her time in this world with nothing but third degree burns to show for it. He thinks of the time he spent wondering about her and how he would have done anything to solve it. He touches her lightly on the hand, and silently says goodbye as her face disappears into the drawer.

And all he sees is Ziva.

When he goes upstairs, he walks to her desk and leans casually against it. She looks at him with a hint of guilt and anger mixed in with the cocktail of surprise, and he smiles at her.

'I can cook, you know.'

She eyes him suspiciously.

'I can cook chicken. In fact, I have a friend who makes this great marinade, and the chicken goes all crispy on the outside.' He pauses. 'I bet you'd like it.'

She glares at him. 'Is this friend just another woman you've slept with, Tony?'

He grins. 'Maybe.'

She stands up. 'I am not interested, Tony, in your conquests.' She goes to move into the corridor, but he stops her with one long arm.

'I wasn't talking about a one-night stand, Zee-vah,' he says, trying and failing to read her expression. 'I was thinking this friend and I might give a relationship a try.'

She raises her eyebrows one millimetre.

'In fact,' he says, the side of his mouth curling up slightly, 'I thought you might like to try this chicken of hers tonight. Although it might be more convenient if we go to her place.'

She considers him, and there is an icy silence in which he has an attack of regret for even asking. A sly smile spreads over her features almost imperceptibly. 'Fine. I'll meet you there.'

She sidesteps him and begins walking to the elevator, but he sees her smile and runs after her. He catches her wrist and presses a kiss to her hair.

She starts at the contact but relaxes when he smiles down at her. She trails her fingers across his lips, brushing her knuckles over his cheek, and steps into the waiting elevator.

Somehow, this time, he's confident the glue, binding his fractured soul together, will stick. Because it's not her he needs; but another who will iron the creases as they come.