Tony blushed as he dropped the pile of magazines on the counter, his eyes refusing to meet the newsagent's polite gaze. He knew that he was being ridiculous and childish because the newsagent must get hundreds of men buying these every week. It was nothing to be ashamed about. He was supposedly in love.

He handed over the money, rejected the pitiful change, gathered up the magazines and hastened out of the shop. He stumbled on the kerb and a shower of magazines cascaded to the floor. Cursing, he dropped to his knees and began to hurriedly collect them all up.

A helpful lady saw his plight and joined him on the pavement, picking up a magazine and examining the cover before handing it to him, smiling sweetly. 'Getting married?' she simpered, picking up another wedding magazine.

'Something like that,' Tony muttered, thanking her and straightening up.

'Big wedding?' the lady persisted, flattening her coifed hair vainly.

'Yeah,' he replied darkly. 'Big, white, fluffy wedding.'

'I released doves at my wedding,' the lady reminisced dreamily. 'It was beautiful.' She batted her false eyelashes and pouted her Barbie-pink lips.

'I'm sure it was,' Tony agreed. 'Look...' he began to apologise, desperate to escape the forthcoming conversation.

'Are you getting involved in the preparations?' she continued her interrogation. 'Buying wedding magazines, planning it, it all is so stressful. Your wife is very lucky to have such a caring, helpful husband.' She giggled girlishly at her mistake. 'Oops,' she lisped. 'I mean such a caring, helpful fiancé. My husband never helped out, he was always working. Whenever I tried to include him, he brushed me off. It was horrible.' Her eyes widened at the memory and Tony edged away as he saw the beginnings of tears forming and glistening behind the violet contact lenses. 'It's wonderful to find a man who is interested in china patterns and...'

Tony nodded, glancing impatiently over his shoulder at his waiting car. 'Look, I'm sorry, I would love to hear about your wedding and your husband, but I've got to go,' he excused himself, leaving the lady happily remembering her wedding day and tearily recalling the preparations.

Tony slipped into the driving seat, throwing the magazines into the passenger seat. He glanced at them, shuddering at the sight of the puffy, white dress filling the cover of the topmost magazine, and sank gratefully into his sleek, leather seat.

'Never get married, DiNozzo,' he muttered, quoting his esteemed boss. He shook his head resignedly and switched on the engine, shooting gracefully out of the parking space and joining the congested traffic inching its way towards home. He turned on the radio and swayed to the music, trying to forget his reservations. Every so often, his self control would waver and he would glance out the window into the adjacent car, watching the balding businessman sitting placidly in his Volvo dreading the drudgery awaiting him at home.

Tony parked outside his apartment and, hiding the magazines under his coat, he hurried up the stairs to his front door. Glancing nervously from side to side, he released his vice-like grip on the embarrassing magazines and placed them carefully on the floor, strategically behind his foot. He fumbled around in his pockets for his keys before dropping them on the floor as he rushed to get into the privacy of his home. He crawled around on the dusty floor, scrabbling the pick up his keys before they fell through the balustrade to the ground floor.

'Getting married, Mr DiNozzo?' a voice squawked behind him. He rescued his keys and spun round, faced with a large behind filling up his view as his cumbersome neighbour bent over to study the offending magazines. 'About time,' she remarked callously. 'You aren't getting any younger, you know.'

He snorted silently, looking once more at the aging, sagging figure in front of him, and was able to reply politely. 'Yes, I know, Miss Bartley.' He struggled to stop himself stressing the Miss. 'I'm looking forward to it.' This was the first time he had voiced his enthusiasm about his impending nuptials but, instead of affirming his excitement, it only served to deepen his qualms.

'Who's the...' She hesitated, resisting from saying lucky. '...lady, then?'

He swallowed his biting remark and smiled patronisingly. 'You don't know her,' he replied, reluctant to share the identity of his future wife. 'But she's lovely,' he added.

His condescending neighbour wrinkled up her nose dubiously at the last part, disbelieving of his charms with women.

'Have you got any plans to get married?' he asked, his patience with her taciturn insults wearing thin.

She narrowed her eyes suspiciously and scowled, her flabby face writhing up to achieve a most ugly effect. She smiled, a fake flatulent grimace, and thrust the magazine at his chest before waddling passed him down the hall.

He chuckled to himself and opened his front door, kicking the magazines into his apartment where he could hide them from the rest of the world.

He sat down on his sofa, a football match playing on his widescreen TV and a bottle of cold beer in his right hand, his sweaty bare feet resting on the coffee table and his coat dropped carelessly on the floor, settling down to a single man's evening but with one exception: the bridal magazine filling his left hand and resting on his knee.

The phone rang and he happily threw the magazine off his lap to answer it. 'DiNozzo,' he greeted cheerily.

'Tony,' Ziva snapped. 'Gibbs needs you here now.'

Tony groaned inwardly. 'What is it about?'

'I don't know,' Ziva replied curtly.

'My marriage?' he asked.

'Our marriage,' Ziva corrected.

'Our fake marriage,' Tony added. 'So,' he prompted. 'Is it about our arranged marriage?' He snorted mirthlessly. 'Arranged by Vance,' he spat.

Ziva rolled her eyes at his childish petulance. 'I don't know,' she repeated impatiently. 'Just come in.'

Tony grinned to himself. 'Are you going to be like this when we are married?' he inquired. 'Because you can't carry the DiNozzo name and be grumpy.'

'Tony,' Ziva warned.

'I'm coming,' he assured her hastily. 'Bye wife.'

'Goodbye, Tony,' she sighed, hanging up.