A/N: I received a PM from tonyfan31970 wondering what would have happened in Agent Afloat when Gibbs walks in and interrupts Tony and Ziva's discussion ("But your eyes won't shut up." Yeah, that one.). Anyway, I was asked to maybe continue that scene (and holy cow was I so freaking flattered that someone actually thought, "Hey, maybe Kit could finish this up?" I mean, wow, totally made my day. Thank you, friend!) so I did. And I hope it doesn't disappoint, though it is a little angsty, but it is Tiva angst. So here you go, keep the peace and much love, Kit!

DISCLAIMER: Characters courtesy of DB and CBS; idea courtesy of tonyfan31970; insanity brought to you by Kit (though that last part is not included in this particular fic -just in general).

Spoilers for Agent Afloat.

Should Have Been

Written for tonyfan31970

"Something you left behind, maybe? Or someone?"

"Ziva."

She does not want to turn around, does not want to face the inevitable questioning that is long overdue. The temptation to feign not-hearing is nearly overwhelming in its appeal, but she finds herself stopping, turning, meeting the familiar gaze of her partner as he strides toward her, with both leisure and purpose in his stride.

"Hey," he says, coming to fall into step with her just as she begins walking once more, after finally convincing her legs to cooperate with her mind.

"Hello," she replies smoothly, evasively almost, and she so hopes he is too tired to delve into it tonight. "You happy to go home, yes?"

"Immensely," he agrees with a sigh, "Not only am I going to take a shower that exceeds five minutes, but I get to sleep in a bed –an actual bed, not a cot on a shelf in a wall. And the floors won't rock when it rains! Oh yeah, I'm happy."

"Good." Benign in its simplicity, utterly neutral, unreadable. And he zones in on her like a hawk.

"Listen, back there on the Seahawk," he speaks uncertainly, before switching tactics, starting again with a deep breath, "I didn't mean-"

"It is fine," she assures him, interrupting with a warning in her eyes. "We don't need to talk about it."

He stops and, after a few steps without him, she stops too, turning to look at him quizzically, studying him with one brow arched perfectly. He shakes his head at her, his face guarded, less open. "We do need to talk about it, Ziva."

"Tony." Her voice frames his name in flashing orange lights and florescent caution tape.

"Why?"

She stares at him, now very confused with her patience nearly spent, glaring. "Why what?" she snaps and it's more defensive than genuine irk.

"Why?" he repeats, refusing to offer her an out.

"I-I do not know-" a pitiful deflection.

"Of course you know," he tells her, "I'm the one in the dark here." And there. And everywhere, really.

"Tony, I honestly have no idea what you are talking about-"

"You were the one that left, Ziva."

And there it is. Not an accusation in so many words, but a statement of utter and pure veracity that she cannot possibly refute. Because she is guilty of the non-charge. Guilty, guilty, guilty.

She licks her lips, struggles, ironically, against the fight-or-flight response in her that is so easily triggered. Forces herself to maintain eye contact, to keep still. "I had too," she tells him, and there's pleading in there somewhere, tainting her words with hesitance. How much should she say? "I-I couldn't stay . . . ."

He keeps his poker-face firmly in place, asking steadily, "Did you regret it?"

"No!" she cries, in indignation on her behalf as well as his.

"Do you think I regret it?" and mild incredulity has crept into his voice as his brow furrowed slightly.

"No." What is his problem? she wonders wildly, hands thrown half up in frustration.

"Then why did I wake up alone?" he asks softly, taking a step forward, but like two magnets of the same polarity, she steps backward, an unconscious repulsion of their endless tug and pull.

It is all too much and the day has been too long and she is too too tired, so she erupts in minor hysteria, to hell with it all, so he could just understand. "Because I could not stay! I could not stay because when you woke up, I wouldn't want to leave! You would have made me breakfast and we would have talked, joked about nothing in particular-" and she sees that scenario playing out in her head once more and she watches it play out across his eyes too. Gentler and, to her relief, calmer, she continues quietly, "-I would have kept on your dress shirt and it would have been so right. . . . Don't you see, Tony? I couldn't leave and know what could have been, know what we could have had. . . . We would have seen what was missing, Tony, and it would have made everything so much harder."

And it's hard enough.

He stands there silently, the will for confrontation leaching out of them both slowly. Then: "It would have worked out-"

She holds up one hand and his words die on his tongue as she begs, "Don't-"

"Ziva-" Please.

"No! I am sorry, Tony, but we cannot do this."

Nothingness until . . . .

"Orders," he says and she can't tell if that's a question or simply an acknowledgement so she doesn't respond. Blinking once, twice, he repeats, the trained investigator that he is, "You're under orders."

She will not accede nor refute this conjecture, turning her face away from him to prevent her eyes from spilling her secrets.

So she does what she's never been good at, and, with a "Good night, Tony" trailing in her wake, she retreats.

And he's thinking déjà vu as he watches her go.

A/N2: I've titled this entire fic, For You, and my hopes are to fill it with prompts from you, my friends. So therefore, I extend the invitation to drop me a line with suggestions of what you'd like to see. Maybe just a word, or a challenge (100 word drabbles are awesome), maybe it was something someone said -or something someone should say. I would prefer it to be Tony/Ziva centered, but I can be persuaded to go beyond that . . . . . Just a thought that could potentially surprise us all, so drop me a line, if you want. Much love, Kit!