A/N: Hello there :^) I am very sorry for my absence, but my life is more than a bit hectic at present (but in the best ways, I assure you). I won't waste time explaining away my day-to-day and lending excuses as to why my writing was relegated to the back-burner (honestly, it was taken off the stove completely), but I intend to finish this story this summer (within the next few weeks, even -barring any major plot twists in my life). I will be completely honest, though, in this regard: I have not seen the most of the recent season of NCIS -nor do I think I will. I caught the first few episodes after CdP's departure and I just couldn't. I feel like the writing has become stagnant and that the characters have hit an evolutionary plateau, and I just couldn't watch something I loved for so long disappear down the slope of mediocrity -not after it had shined so brightly for so long. I don't know how many more fics I'll be publishing, and there are a few I would like to finish (including this one), but I do have my swan song in production. Nevermind that babble, though, let's get on with the show! Keep the peace and lovelovelove, Kit!

DISCLAIMER: I own nothing.

IX.

Paris

"Tony?" she asks one night as he rummages around the depths of his closet for something. A muffled noise is issued from amongst a forest of Armani suits and OSU apparel (and whatever pieces of Ziva's own wardrobe that have migrated into his closet) and then Tony's face is peering curiously out at her.

She's sprawled across his bed on her stomach, her chin propped in her hand as she ponders the picture frame resting before her on the mattress. Her finger taps against the glass as she fixes him with a bemused expression. "What is this?"

He extracts himself from the closet and pads over to her, peering down at image that's garnered so much of her attention. He bites the inside of his cheek, replying neutrally, "A photograph."

"Of me."

He sits down next to her, running his fingers through his hair, embarrassed. "Yeah."

She nods thoughtfully, her voice sounding excited when she says, "I know this photo; you took it when we were in Paris."

He nods slowly in confirmation. "I did."

"I didn't know you kept it."

He smiles then. "It was my favorite," he informs her.

"You framed it." And it's true, he did. It's a nondescript silver frame that he probably got as a gift from a well-meaning neighbor, or distant relative twenty years ago. The photo is small, only a four by six, and it usually sits on his dresser next to the ceramic bowl he keeps for spare change and the old iPod he uses when he goes running.

"It's a beautiful picture, Zee-vah. I didn't want it to get messed up."

She takes a deep breath and rolls over onto her back, staring up at him with a soft look that makes his breath come out shaky. "I think this is how our discussion of Paris starts, Tony," she whispers, smiling gently.

He bobs his head in agreement, "I think so too. You good with that?"

She nods as he maneuvers himself to lie down beside her. "I am."

They're quiet for a moment, just breathing together. Tony is the first to speak in a soft voice that he only ever uses with her, "Paris was the first time I felt like we were comfortable with each other –I mean, you were certainly comfortable." And the last part is his attempt at levity, which she appreciates, chuckling against his shoulder huskily.

"I was asleep," she says in amusement. "Sometimes I migrate, and it was cold in the room and you were warm." And it's true, she does migrate in her sleep, and it was ridiculously cold in that Parisian hotel room, but still . . .

"You were on top of me."

She smirks, "You weren't complaining."

"No," he agrees with chuckle of his own. "No, I definitely wasn't complaining."

"You kissed me," she reminds him and he leans over and presses his lips against hers, a faint echo of that first kiss almost three summers ago.

He pulls away, smirking at her through heavy-lidded eyes. "You kissed me back."

She lifts herself up and kisses the corner of his mouth once more. "I did."

"I missed you," he tells her, running his fingers along the smooth skin of her arm. "I couldn't believe that you were there with me," and he can't really believe that she's here with him now, lying next to him, his fingertips against the warmth of her skin. He thinks of the past seven weeks, of all those memories they've made together from the moment their badges hit Vance's desk to this instant right now. "Ziva, I lied."

She goes still beside him and her eyes, which had been closed at his ministrations, opened to peer at him in confusion. "What do you mean, you lied?"

He sighs heavily and feels his chest loosen against the confession. "When you asked that morning in Paris about the rescue op, I told you that we had gotten intel, that you had been spotted in the desert . . . It was hearsay, Ziva. We had no concrete proof that you were ever even there. I . . . I volunteered to go, convinced Vance it was a matter of national security. It was BS. I made out my will before I left, I put my affairs in order, I set foot on that plane, and I didn't expect to come home."

"Neither did I," she murmurs, entwining their fingers.

"I couldn't save Kate and I -I couldn't save Jenny. I loved them, but I couldn't save them . . . And you, I couldn't live without you. I loved you too much, but it was different, it didn't fade, it didn't stop. I thought of you all the time and everything hurt . . . It was a suicide mission, Ziva."

She doesn't say anything for several long heartbeats, merely squeezes his hand in hers. Finally she speaks, and it's like a balm to his soul. "But we survived, yes?"

"Yes, we did."

She smiles at him, kissing his shoulder. "We can cross Paris off our list now."

He chuckles, feeling lighter somehow, the burden fading into the air. "Yes, we can," he agrees contentedly as she slips her leg over his thighs and rolls to straddle his hips. He groans softly against her mouth as she kisses him, "Ziva?"

"Hm?" she asks, swiping her tongue against the pulse point in his neck. He makes a squeaky noise and brushes her hair out of her face, guiding her head back gently so he can make eye contact. She's watching him, amused and curious, and he's got to say this right now.

"There's one more thing on that list, one last item I didn't mention before."

Her brows furrow slightly, but she doesn't quite get it, which is fine because he wants to explain.

"I gotta tell you something, and it's really, really important."

"What is it, Tony?"

He pauses for dramatic effect because that's just who he is. Finally, he takes a deep breath and says . . . "I can speak Hebrew."

Her head tilts to the side in utter confusion. "What?"

"Not fluently," he starts babbling, but oh well, she'll forgive him –hopefully: "Smiel's a pretty awesome guy and he's been helping me out, in a weird kind of way, I guess-"

"Tony," and, yeah, she knows him so well.

"Zee-vah," he replies, drawing the syllables of her name out like he's done since Day One. He smiles and cradles her face, memorizing the way she looks hovering above him, lips kiss-swollen and eyes revealing a slowly dwindling patience. He smiles and speaks slowly and clearly, "Oni otcha avi."

Her face lights up and her immediate reply is uttered with a conviction he feels deep in his very bones. "Oni oche avu."

"I know," he whispers, guiding her down for another kiss, this one longer and more serious, sealing their lives together in a way neither of them thought they would be privy to.

It feels a lot like love.