Disclaimers: Now is the winter of our discontent. Mostly because I can't find Harpoon Winter Warmer yet.

Spoilers: Broken Arrow.

Summary: Ziva stops by Tony's place for an impromptu movie night.

Tony opened the door without checking his peephole, as he was expecting the pizza man. The fact that he hadn't had to buzz him in should have raised a red flag. He wasn't fast enough to close it before Ziva had gotten inside. "Uh…hey."

"You seem surprised to see me."

"Well…" He bit back his disappointment that she was not the pizza man. He was starved and tired and really not in the mood to deal with whatever deep issues she probably wanted to talk about. "I'm kinda…"

"You said I should come by to watch James Bond movies with you later. It is later."

He blinked. Why wasn't she launching into a rant about his relationship with his father like a nosy, angst-seeking missile? Was she trying to force his guard to come down with the temptation of Bond? Or had he simply missed the apocalypse while he'd been napping on the sofa before the need for pizza had hit him? Most importantly, where was his pizza? He decided to deal with his immediate problem. "You never take me seriously when I say we should watch movies."

"Sometimes I do." It may have been his low blood sugar, but he thought she seemed a little hurt. Her voice was lower when she continued, "You did invite me."

"Yeah, but…" He reached out to answer the buzzer by the door, thankful for the distraction. "Yeah."

A familiar voice crackled through the speaker. "Il Fornello's."

"C'mon up." When he turned back to Ziva, he was feeling a little more welcoming. "Well, I'm glad you're here, anyway. Unfortunately, all I ordered was a sausage and pepperoni."

She held up a white plastic bag on top of a box that he hadn't noticed her holding in his earlier fog of suspicion. "I brought Pad Thai for myself. And beer."

"Hopefully not just for yourself…" The twelve pack of bottles clinked as she hefted the box into his gut. He was about to complain about the rough treatment of both his body and the beer when he caught sight of the label. "Cookie beer! It's back!"

She was already in the kitchen, picking through his silverware drawer. "Why is it that you like this beer but not Pad Thai? Or washing forks, apparently."

"Check the dishwasher; that stuff's clean." A knock sounded at the door just as he was tearing open the flap of the box. He spoke around his first bite of pizza when he got back to the counter to claim his first beer, which was already sitting there uncapped for him. He joined Ziva on the couch as his pizza box hit the coffee table. "Mmm. Doesn't get any better than pizza and beer that tastes like cookies."

She held up a fork with noodles twirled around it. "Pad Thai tastes like candy."

"No, it tastes like wannabe Chinese food. But don't get upset – I'll still eat your shrimp." He reached for one from the pile she had made on a napkin. It did have a slightly sweet flavor, he had to admit.

"They put it in every single time, no matter how many times I ask them not to. Why do they even mix shrimp with chicken?"

"Because they know you're eating with me." He quickly finished his first piece of pizza and washed it down with the rest of his first beer. "Am-freaking-brosia."

She took a daintier sip from hers. "It is unique."

"Can I get you another?"

"Not at the moment."

He felt her watching him through the entire process of getting a fresh beer and popping a DVD into the player. "What? You want some input into which movie we're watching first?"

"No, you are the expert."

"Right." He tried not to puff out his chest. "I thought we'd start with Thunderball. Sean Connery, frogmen, and a familiar plot involving sunken atomic bombs."

She looked at him incredulously. "You are joking."

"Not at all. Too close to reality for you?"

"Why would you think frog-people would be a part of my reality?"

"Frogmen, Ziva, not frog-people. They're basically military SCUBA divers."

"Why did you not simply say that?"

"Because passport or no passport, you still haven't fully integrated into American culture. It's good you came by, because watching movies is, uh, good for you."

"Sssh. It is starting."

He was four beers into the night when the credits finally rolled. "So, what'd you think?"

She eyed him critically and took a second sip from her third beer. "We are friends, yes?"

The question caught him off guard. "Uh…are you asking because you didn't like the movie but don't want to hurt my feelings?" The look on her face told him he'd guessed wrong. Weird question, but maybe it was just one of those alcohol-induced things. He tried again. "We're staying in to drink and watch movies on a Friday night. What would make you think were not?"

"You told your father that we are just colleagues."

So, here it was. He groaned inwardly. "Y'know, you didn't have to get me drunk to interrogate me about my dad. You could have just whipped out a spear gun and had at me."

"I do not care what your father thinks. I want to know why you told him we are just coworkers."

"What difference does it make?" He got up and walked unsteadily to the refrigerator. "We're coworkers who are also friends that hang out watching Bond movies. He was just trying to get a rise out of me, told me he was planning to hit on you. If I'd let him know we go anywhere beyond work, you'd have had more than roaming hands to deal with."

He jumped and hit his head on the handle of the freezer as she said from directly behind him, "He is harmless."

"Damn it!" He felt like he needed to come up with a strong rebuttal to her statement, but the pain in his skull was preventing any complicated thoughts. Even worse, she was pulling his fresh bottle of beer from his hands. "Hey!"

"Ssh." She pushed his hand aside and held the bottle to the top of his head. "I suppose an ice pack would be too much to ask."

"Who owns an ice pack?" He focused on the cold spot, which was already making him feel better. He also caught a whiff of perfume, possibly from Ziva's wrist, which was close to his nose. "You smell nice. Friends tell friends they smell nice, right?"

"Perhaps you should go back to the sofa." She pulled his arm over her shoulders like he needed the assistance. Well, if she wanted to feel useful…he leaned against her heavily as they shuffled back to the couch. "All right. Lie down and I will get you something for your head."

He sighed as she returned to the kitchen after fluffing his pillow. Funny, if he'd banged his head on the filing cabinet at work, she probably would have laughed and made up some reason he deserved it. He was feeling much better when she came back with a plastic bag of ice wrapped in a dish towel, but he moaned anyway when she gently placed it on his head. "That should feel better."

He allowed it to fall off when she moved stopped holding it. "Can you…?"

She sighed and sat down, allowing him to settle his head in her lap so she could hold the ice pack in place. "Better?"

"Uh-huh." He smiled up at her. "Y'know, you don't have to be nice to me just to make me say we're not just coworkers. I didn't really bang my head that hard."

"Did you put in a new movie?" She didn't look down.

"No. I was thinking For Your Eyes Only, Roger Moore. Maybe we could do a procession of Bonds, except Timothy Dalton. I hate that guy." He shifted his position slightly, catching another whiff of perfume. "But I'm pretty comfortable right now. We could see if there's anything on TV. Uh, unless you wanted to, uh, talk more. About my dad. I mean, it's probably the head trauma talking, but…"

"If you would like to talk we can, but I am satisfied."

"Really?"

"Really."

"Oh."

"You sound disappointed."

He rolled onto his back to look at her without straining his neck. "You came here because you really thought I don't consider you my friend?"

"No, I came because you suggested we could watch Bond movies together."

He sat up. "For Your Eyes Only, then?"

"Do not get up. I will take care of it."

"I really didn't hit my head that hard." He enjoyed the view as she bent over to find the DVD. "And he's not harmless."

Her voice was muffled in his cabinet. "Who?"

"What do you mean, who? My dad! He's…well, he's not harmful, but…look, I'm not gonna call you Mom."

"Why would you…?" she trailed off as she pulled out the correct DVD and turned to smirk at him. "Do not be ridiculous, Tony. I have no intention of becoming Mrs. DiNozzo."

He was rendered speechless by the combination of her statement and ass as she bent down to insert the DVD. The movie's theme was playing by the time he managed to say, "Y'know, there's nothing wrong with being a Mrs. DiNozzo…"

"It is sweet that you still want to defend your father."

He didn't reply, as he wasn't sure he could clarify his point. He hadn't gotten any closer to saying what he really wanted to by the time she fell asleep with her head on his shoulder halfway through GoldenEye.