Summary: A long walk over several nights.

Spoilers: I suppose one if you squint, but really this has no exact timeline.

Background: Tony and Ziva have been fuck buddies for a long time, but as we all know, fuck buddy relationships rarely end well. (I know this from experience.) This is the result.

Rating: T, got some swears here and there and a bit of adult relationship themes.

Disclaimer: I don't own them. I own pain, thoughts, long walks in the middle of the damn night, and loneliness, but I don't own Tony and Ziva.

This is a Tiva piece, yes, but you'll find that neither of their names are ever mentioned in the piece. I've been really into the idea of creating an ambiguous piece lately. I'd considered two types: this type, where it maybe isn't Tony or Ziva but any man or woman; or another, where you're not quite sure if it's her or if it's him. I toyed with a few ideas but this is the one that really took hold and ran away from me. Or walked, so to speak.

I'm not entirely sure where this idea came from. Well, okay, that's not quite true. I've struggled with the loss of someone close to me - someone who I loved, but who did not in turn love me. I worked through that by walking at night, in the cold evening air. Those were the times when I was alone with my thoughts, and some of them are undoubtedly echoed here.

Two thousand seventy-four.

The numbers ran through her head as easily as air through her nostrils: simply, without thought. It had barely started, and already she was sure that she would reach a million steps before she was over him.

She barely had to think about the steps anymore. Now, it was just something her brain did, mentally tracked the steps she took in the darkness as her mind wandered over anything and everything she saw, thought of, or experienced.

What had started as the distraction had ended up becoming something which warranted distraction. Concentrating on the numbers themselves had quickly become tedious, but she was sure she would reflect on them from time to time. She counted in her mind the same way that she drove - it was second nature, something which required little thought. If any. She smiled to herself as the numbers rolled through her mind. It had only been a few hours and already, she had passed two thousand.

Surely, a million steps would not be enough. A million footfalls, a million paces, a million strides. A million millions? Even then, she was sure it would not be enough to get over him. That the hurt she felt would last forever.

And it was fitting, wasn't it? That she'd walked away from his apartment that night knowing that walking in the other direction was the only course of action to take. She could take less than half a step toward him and continue to stumble and fall at his feet, or she could take a millions steps in the other direction without ever having to run away from the inevitable - that it was not meant to be.

Thirteen thousand six hundred twenty-three.

It was only the third day of her nightly walks in the cold evening air. Somehow, her brain had recognized that her evening walks were the only steps of significance and had neglected to count the steps of her morning runs, the walking and running of a day at work, and numerous steps about the apartment.

No, these steps were the ones that counted. Already her subconscious had come to recognize the importance of these steps. These were the steps that worked to heal her. At least in theory.

Her thoughts often wandered on these evening excursions. Sometimes she walked with a clear destination in mind, sometimes she didn't, but almost always she would walk with her hands in her pockets - guarding her weapon in one pocket and her keys and identification in the other - taking in the sounds of the city as she contemplated losing him.

She didn't tell him she was walking away after that night. She just decided to stop calling him and inviting him over. That had been how it worked. They'd go their separate ways after their day at the office and one of them - usually her - would call or text, and the other would show up. They'd have wild hot sex - so hot that to think of it even now she feels a rush of heat in her nether regions - and then the visiting party would get dressed and head back to their apartment. The invitation to stay was never given, though both knew without saying that it would probably always be open, were it necessary.

She wasn't entirely sure when it had become more to her. When the wild hot sex would become her only way of expressing the feelings she had for him from the depths of her very soul. She'd known, though, that to tell him would ruin everything, and she'd rather have him than not.

And so she never said it. And she promised herself that unless under two very certain and definite circumstances (the first being imminent death, and the second being if he ever were to say it first), that she never would.

She simply chose to let him go ... and walking soothed her heart. It kept the ghost of him that lingered in her apartment at bay. It had only been a few days now and already she knew that she missed him terribly - even though she saw him every single day, and even though he didn't even know that she'd chosen to end it. No, it had only been a few days, but already, she was sure that at thirteen-thousand some steps, merely one-point-three percent of the way to a million steps, she would certainly not be over him in a million steps. Or perhaps even a million years.

Sixty-five thousand, four hundred thirty-two.

That first night was a Tuesday night in March, the night she'd decided that walking away was perhaps the best course of action, in both a literal and figurative sense.

That was the night she'd chosen, the frigid night breeze blowing around her hair as she walked brusquely toward his apartment to tell him after several months of a purely sexual relationship, that she wanted to be more to him than merely a 'fuck buddy.' A term she hated, but she supposed the other term - 'friend with benefits' - was not much better.

That was the night he'd come back from vacation - he'd chosen to visit some cousins in Tennessee - and she'd missed him. Perhaps too much. She'd walked past his vacant desk countless times throughout the week and missed the little moments where she'd linger there, leaning over him with casual ease as they'd chat about the various goings-on around them, closer than friends but at the same time, not.

Those were the nights she'd go home and reach for the phone in the darkness, forgetting in her sleepy, dazed state that he was not within his usual driving distance, and he - and his body - would not be able to make it to her own sexually starved one, before she'd roll over to her other side and contemplate texting him anyway just to tell him how much she missed him - those were the nights she would mentally slap herself, reminding herself that she was not supposed to miss him.

The cold March night she'd chosen was the night he'd come back from his trip. He'd had little cell phone reception in the mountains and thus, had heard very little from him while he was gone, but she'd assumed he'd check in for at least a quickie upon his return - when she heard nothing, she'd thought to take a walk to his apartment. Partially because the cold air would do her sexually deprived body some good, and partially because she really wanted to run up the stairs, bang down his door, and fuck the ever living hell out of him.

That was the night she'd paused - for the first time ever before entering his building - and looked up to see that he was not alone in his apartment. And that two bodies were closer than just the average houseguest.

That was the night when she realized that there was never going to be a time to tell him that she'd fallen for him; that her instincts were wrong on this one. That all of the things that had passed from his lips had not in fact meant that he'd felt more than what he said. There were nights they'd gone out, perhaps blurred the line between 'fuck buddy' and 'girlfriend,' but still in his mind, the line was still very clearly drawn between them. In hers, it had been much more gray.

The tears threatened to fall before she'd even registered the pain in her heart, and the last thing she wanted to do was stand crying in the street outside his apartment, so she'd turned to walk home, and without even thinking about it, her mind had invented the perfect distraction in the accidental counting of her steps. By the time she'd arrived at the corner, she had reached forty-six steps, and as an act of pure morbid curiosity, she'd consciously continued counting all the way home.

That was the first time she'd wondered if a million steps would be enough to end the hurt in her heart. Later that night as she passed two thousand, she knew that it would not be.

Again tonight, as she neared the halfway point between sixty-five thousand and sixty-six thousand, she also knew in her heart that it would not, could not be. At this rate, she could walk every day for a year and while she'd surely surpass a million steps in that time, she knew that one year - one year of constantly seeing him, working closely with him, and wanting him - one year would not be long enough.

One hundred seventy-two thousand, five hundred fifty-seven.

He'd finally noticed today that she hadn't called him in a while, and he'd finally called her on it.

What a difficult day it had been, she thought, as she continued down her block in silence. It was a warm evening, and she'd foregone the usual hoodie in favor of a simple cotton shirt for her walk that night.

He'd pulled her into the elevator by the wrist, feigning some sort of discussion about the case at hand, and no sooner had the door closed than he'd slapped the switch with almost casual disdain. As though the emergency stop switch was supposed to activate itself on his whims. And without even missing a beat, he asked her if everything was all right, for she hadn't called him in a while.

Over a month, in fact. Not that she had been counting. She'd actually said that. Ironic though it was, because of course she had been counting. Every goddamn day.

She was surprised that he had even noticed. No doubt he had plenty of eager women who were more than ready and willing - such as their annoying new neighbor at work - and surely he didn't miss the pleasures of her flesh any more than anyone else's.

She was even more surprised at how calmly she'd told him that she was walking away from their arrangement. She didn't spill the contents of her soul to him or even let on to the fact that she had gotten too close, she just told him that it was done, and that was that.

That was that.

But the rest of the day, she felt his eyes on her, questioning, prying, suspicious. She knew that he knew that something was up, and nothing she could do or say would lend him the message to simply drop it.

She suspected there would be several more days like this to come - after all, if there was anyone on the planet who was persistent, it was her partner, and she knew that he wouldn't give it up that easily, if he ever gave it up.

But the sigh of relief she let out when he stepped off the elevator and back into the bullpen alerted her to the fact that tonight ...

Tonight she would probably need to walk twice as long, just to silence her thoughts.

Perhaps tonight she could walk a million steps, but not tonight, nor tomorrow, not next week would that millionth step automatically cause the ache in her heart to dull, or the flutters she felt when she saw him to quit.

Five hundred thousand.

She was halfway there. She stopped for a moment, and noted her surroundings. A tree stood in front of a small store called "Louie's Hardware" with two blue awnings and a Snap-Tite toolbox in the window display. She'd passed Louie's many times on her evening walks and never really paid it any mind, but as her halfway step took her to this exact point, she made a mental note that she would stop here and buy a wrench or something. A keepsake. As silly as the notion of a keepsake for a milestone which meant nothing, considering halfway to 'not over him yet' was still 'not over him yet.'

She was not surprised that she'd managed to walk half a million steps over several months. She had surely run three times that in the same frame of time. Steps were easy. Facing the silence, the loneliness, was not.

His questioning glances had mostly stopped. There was the errant peek here and there, but his piercing gazes which seemed to beg an explanation had become less and less frequent. Small miracles did happen, she believed. Their friendship was not the same, though. That - she regretted. Very much.

She almost considered calling him in the middle of the night for a booty call, just like old times, just to get him back into her arms. But the same voice in her head - or was it her heart - stopped her from dialing every time. She knew she could not bear to give her body to him - her everything to him - if he would give her nothing in return. She couldn't understand how he could kiss her and not mean anything when she could kiss him and it would mean everything.

And at this point, she was not even sure that he still wanted her. She knew that the sex had been great - she knew because he had told her, for one, and that the way he reacted could not be faked. There are some things you can pretend in the bedroom. Sheer mind-numbing pleasure, you could not. And she'd been with many men - learned to read them; understand them - and she knew that every action and reaction from him was completely real.

But did that mean that he would still want her? Perhaps as a living male, of course he would. He was only human, and she still had a pair of tits and she was sure that he hadn't forgotten the feel of them draped across his body.

She sure hadn't forgotten how good it had felt to have him close.

She shook her head, refusing to allow herself to indulge in such thoughts. It never ended well when she did.

She supposed he had realized that she was not going to ever slip back into their arrangement. He had not asked why, and she had not supplied the reason. She was fairly sure that he did not know how much she still pined for him after all this time.

How much she still loved him.

She could admit it to herself now. She loved him. It had been something she'd been unwilling to face. Unwilling to acknowledge. How stupid, to fall for your sex friend. The whole point is to have sex at arm's length, something she'd managed better than most with every other man. Better than most men, even. Until him.

She'd had walls. She'd built up fortresses, practically, and he found every last one of her weaknesses and weaseled his way in. And she kind of hated him for it, but she definitely did love him for it, as well.

Halfway.

Should she even continue, she wondered? Was there any point to it at all? Would a million steps matter, really? Two or three million, perhaps? Half a million steps and it didn't seem to be getting her anywhere. If a million steps was supposed to make her stop loving him, shouldn't half a million steps make her feel half of what she feels now?

She stood there for several minutes - perhaps almost an hour. She honestly didn't even know if a million steps was worth taking if she had to take all of those steps alone.

That seems like a good place to stop this. I am certain this is unfinished, but to be honest, I have no idea if or when I will come back to it and give the rest of the million steps. If there will be a turning point, or if she'll just keep walking away her pain.

Me ... I just keep walking.

For now, I am marking this complete. It may or may not stay that way. I hate how I set out to write an ambiguous piece and I even put the ambiguity into my ending. I would appreciate feedback though, good or bad, and if you feel it is worth continuing. I'm not begging for reviews in order to force myself to continue - I don't write that way - but I would like some honest opinions if you'd be willing to spare the time. Much appreciated.