Sometimes he wonders how an awkward kid from Long Island ended up with the life he has. How did the shy elementary school kid with the dying mother end up trailing bad guys through Panama? How did the middle school kid with big glasses and too-long hair end up policing a ship of 6000 sailors in the Atlantic Ocean? How did the disruptive teen at boarding school end up purposely driving into a Somali terrorist camp to avenge his partner's death? He supposes he just does things when he thinks they need to be done. But whenever he stops to think of the crazy events that make up his adult life, he can't quite believe that life belongs to him.

Case in point. He had plans to spend tonight—New Year's Eve—with some friends having a few quiet drinks in snowy DC. But his 12 years at NCIS have taught him that plans often turn on a dime. And so it is that he is about to ring in the new year in a foreign land and on a train that has literally been stopped in its tracks by a blizzard. Just hours ago he used brute force to escape from brief captivity at the hands of some kind of militia group whose background he is still unclear on, and secured a piece of intelligence that is somehow important to protecting national security. It is hardly the quiet night he had planned.

But at least he has Ziva for company.

The blizzard has stolen the train's forward momentum, power and heat, and when he squints through the dark of their small private cabin at his partner he finds that Ziva now looks as cold as he feels. The collar of her woolen coat is popped up to her nose and her hands are jammed deep into her pockets. Her back and shoulders are hunched forward to preserve heat, and her long dark hair spills out from beneath her black knitted hat. In addition to looking cold he also thinks she looks unbearably cute, but he won't tell her that. He values the health he currently has, compromised as it is.

Although they are both positive that they were not followed onto the train, Ziva won't relinquish her guard dog routine and insists on keeping watch over the frozen tundra outside in case an underground army comes for them. He thinks it may be a function of her boredom rather than legitimate concern for their current safety, so he decides it is time to distract her with his mid-life crisis.

"How did I get here?"

She takes her eyes off the frozen hills outside to cast a worried look at him. He knows the look and he can read her thoughts, and so he holds up a bruised hand with blood beneath the fingernails to stop her before she speaks.

"I don't mean literally, like 'How did I get on this train?' I'm clear on that. I don't have a concussion."

Some of the tension ebbs from her shoulders and she leans her shoulder against the window. "I am relieved," she says, deadpan.

He's not so sure she believes. But he doesn't care about convincing her right now. There is a bigger conversation to have. "I mean, how is this my life? How did I get here? Where being on a stalled train in the middle of a blizzard, in Switzerland, on New Year's Eve, after escaping the clutches of people who wanted to kill us…" He pauses to check if he has missed anything. He thinks that covers tonight's adventure, so he continues. "How did something like that get to be my life?"

She stares at him impassively for a moment before taking two steps over and easing herself onto the seat beside him. He is not sure if he's really asking her for an answer or simply seeking to share the absurdity. But Ziva thinks it over and offers a suggestion.

"It is like the song, yes?" She shrugs a shoulder and smirks as though she already knows that he won't buy what she is trying to sell. "In the Navy, you can sail the seven seas."

He stares at her until he sees her smile peek through her collar, and then he doubles over laughing with fatigue and absurdity.

"We're not on a boat," he points out when he catches his breath.

Ziva seems pleased to have made him laugh so hard. "I know."

"And I'm not in the Navy."

"The link is tenuous," she agrees. "But it is there."

"Just say you don't know."

She glances out the window again (they haven't moved; they would have felt it) before she crosses her arms over her stomach and leans forward. The smell of her drifts over him, and he finds familiar comfort in it.

"But I think I do know," she says. She looks tired, but when her smile peeks through the gap in her collar again, he finds her irresistible. "You got here by following your gut."

Ah. Gibbs wisdom. She's on a winner there.

"So this craziness is fate or destiny or something?"

"Something," she agrees. "Why? Have you had enough?

He is shaking his head and rejecting the idea before he has taken time to consider the question. "No. Sometimes I just sit back and think about it all and I feel kind of…discombobulated."

She frowns so deeply that her face practically folds in on itself. "Disco-what?"

He doesn't know why he thought she'd understand that. "I just feel confused by it all. Like I can't believe it's actually my life."

"Oh."

"Do you ever get that?"

She gives him a soft look that he supposes should be telling, but he can't quite understand it.

"Every day," she replies, surprising him probably more that it should have. "Every morning and every night."

"Fourteen-year-old Ziva didn't expect to spend New Year's on a freezing, broken down train in Switzerland after a fist fight?"

She laughs, and flexes her busted up knuckles inside her gloves. "Yes," she says honestly. "Just not with you."

"Filthy American," he supposes.

Her smile is entirely affectionate. "You could use a shower," she says, deliberately misunderstanding. "We both could."

"And a shower we will have when we get to a nice, warm hotel," he assures her.

"I want a bath."

He scrunches up his nose at the idea of marinating in his own filth. "Blurgh."

She grins at him, but then stands up and returns to the window, taking her warmth with her. He follows her gaze outside as he turns his thoughts back to his life's journey.

"When I was 14, I don't think I even knew about half the countries I've been to with you."

Her eyes flick over to him again. "Did your school not teach geography, or were you just a terrible student?"

"I was distracted," he informs her.

"By girls?"

He grins. "And basketball. I wanted to play in the NBA and then travel the world with my millions of dollars."

"You are still traveling the world," she points out.

"But not exactly sightseeing," he says, and flexes his aching jaw.

"You are being picky." She throws him a smile to assure him she is joking, and then looks out the window.

"I saw Paris, I saw France," he leads, and then waits for Ziva to react. But she doesn't, and he supposes that Israeli children in the 80s weren't brought up learning underpants-related rhymes.

"You also saw Berlin, Cartagena, Rota, Naples, Tel Aviv, Baghdad, London—"

"Stop, I'm tired," he says, and he really is. He lifts his wrists and squints to read his watch. "It's almost midnight," he tells her.

"Interesting way to bring in the new year," she says. She leans her back against the window and crosses her arms tightly around her. "If I must be honest, I am somewhat underwhelmed."

He can't help but shake his head with disbelief. Only Ziva would call a night of spy games underwhelming. "Are you annoyed that there wasn't a tank nearby that we could blow up as we escaped?"

"That certainly would have been memorable," she decides. Her eyes fall to her feet as she scuffs her boot back and forth on the floor a few times. "I mean that being stuck on a train is underwhelming."

"Ah," he says as though he understands her exact point. But he doesn't. "You'd rather be stuck in an airport?"

She smiles as if he is joking. "No."

He senses there is something on her mind that she is considering sharing with him, but it seems as though he will need to tease it out of her. Well, they've got time to kill. "Come sit with me, Zi-vah."

"Why?"

"Because I'm cold and it's dark and I'm scared."

She snorts as her eyes wander out the window again. "Scared."

"It's the middle of the night and we're in the middle of nowhere," he says, playing it up. "There could be ravenous bears out there."

She turns her head to him, but jerks her head towards the window. "That is why I am keeping watch." She winks at him for good measure, and he can't help grinning. She just looks so damn cute.

"Come sit with me, Ziva."

To his surprise, she returns to his side. Once again she brings the alluring scent of spice with her, and he barely leans into her side as she pulls her hair back over her shoulder. She has been playful tonight, and he hopes he can get her to keep it up. They need relief from the stress of the evening.

"Now what?" she asks.

He goes for charming, but not the kind of charming that seems to bug her. "Tell me a story."

Her face is close to his in the dark, and he watches with prickling skin as her eyes very slowly fall to his mouth and then lift again. Clearly, she had not been expecting that. "A story?"

"Yeah. To calm my nerves." And to make her relax. Loosen her tongue. Make her comfortable enough to share whatever it is that's on her mind.

She crosses her legs towards him and settles back against the seat. He takes this as a sign that she is settling in for at least 30 seconds. "I am not creative," she tells him with a sigh that suggests she wishes she were. "That is more your area of expertise."

"You want me to tell the story?"

She shrugs and then smirks. "You are the one who likes to talk."

"If only I could ever be sure that you're listening."

Her response is predictable. "What was that?"

He subtly shifts a bit closer to her again. "Okay. There once was a silver-haired man who was cranky a lot, and the only thing that made him feel better was to slap his loyal Saint Bernard."

She puts her hand up to stop him. "We are alone on a train in the snow on New Year's Eve and you want to tell me a story about Gibbs?" She sounds utterly disappointed, and when she points it out he can't help but feel disappointed too.

"Well…I was going to throw a robot in there at some point."

"The Saint Bernard's best friend?"

He leans in to grin at her. "Hey. You're not a robot. You're deeply empathetic, and don't let anyone tell you that."

Ziva chuckles and rests her head back against the seat. "Would you like me to try?"

"Yes."

She is quiet for a long time as she thinks. Finally, she gives up. "I cannot think of anything."

"Okay, let me try again," he says, and then just goes with the first thing that comes into his head. "Once upon a time there was a loyal Saint Bernard who found himself on a stalled train on New Year's Eve."

"Where do you get your inspiration?" she drawls, but he ignores her. It's not like she did any better.

"His head throbbed from an attack he sustained while gallantly protecting his friend from harm, and really, all he wanted to do was curl up an a warm ball by the fire and sleep until he felt better."

She turns her head towards him and her face comes closer than before. He can smell that familiar hint of spice again, and he feels warmth spread through his chest. "I thought the Saint Bernard insisted that he felt fine."

He feels only momentary guilt over making her worry. "Yes, but he's sleepy," he tells her. "The Saint Bernard has been attacked before—much worse than this—and he knows that, comparatively, he's fine."

Ziva purses her lips. She is dubious, but doesn't labor the point. "Who would attack a dog?"

"Bad guys, to be sure," he says, and then shakes his head. "But that's not the point of the story. The Saint Bernard was kind of disappointed in himself that all he wanted to do on New Year's was curl up and go to bed."

The corner of her mouth lifts. "He is not a puppy anymore."

"And he feels that more and more every day," he replies, letting his eyes close for just a moment to underline his point. "He usually makes big plans for New Year's—even if he knows they're likely to get cancelled at the last minute—but he didn't this year. Just a drink or two with old friends. And the fact that he was kind of okay with that tells him that he's getting too old, too fast."

"Dogs getting old and being abused." She frowns at him. "This story is sadder than I was expecting."

He nudges her body with his. "Well, if you want to rub the Saint Bernard's belly to make him feel better…"

One eyebrow arches sharply. "Belly?" she questions, and then lets her eyes drop quickly to his lap and back.

Tony shifts slightly. He's not sure what response he can give to that without sounding completely gross, so he doesn't address the comment. "The Saint Bernard, despite being battered and bruised and old and cold, was nevertheless pleased by the turn of events that led to him spending New Year's with his friend."

"The one he gallantly protected?"

"The very same."

He catches a playful glint in her eye just before she leans over and places a gloved hand on his belly. "Good boy," she says, rubbing gently before pulling away again.

He barely feels the touch, but the intent puts a smile on his face. If she gets close enough again, he thinks he might just give her a New Year's kiss.

"Does the Saint Bernard have any New Year's resolutions?" she asks.

"Avoid getting attacked by bad guys."

She grunts and nods agreeably."

"I read a story the other day about a cop who retired from the force—I think somewhere in West Virginia?—after 44 years on the job," he tells her. "He said in all that time he'd never fired his weapon in the field or been in a fight."

Ziva looks at him as if he has just told her that Gibbs is a closet stoner. "I do not understand."

"Right?" he says, nodding. "And I just keep wondering what the hell is wrong with us. I fire my weapon almost once a week. And I've lost count of how many fights I've been in."

"He must live in a very a very quiet and safe area," she says defensively.

"Or else we're good at finding trouble."

They look at each other, and then around the cabin of their stalled, snowed-in train in Switzerland.

"Perhaps," she allows.

"Maybe the Saint Bernard's resolution should be to stop finding trouble."

She rolls her eyes comically. "The Saint Bernard does not need to be boring on top of old."

That stings his pride. Or at least it would if her hand hadn't gravitated to his knee. This is much better than when she was standing over by the window and staring into the dark.

"I don't make resolutions," he tells her, and he thinks he may have told her so in the past as well. "What about you?"

She blows out a breath and looks at the ceiling. "Eat better. Exercise more."

He doubts she could improve much on either but sees the futility in arguing the point. "You said something just before about me being boring?"

He watches as her eyes slide from the ceiling and down to him. "Kiss more," she offers. And is it his imagination or did her voice just get a little huskier?

His eyebrows rise at this very interesting and important answer. "Really?" He manages to roll his 'R'.

The glint returns to her eye. "I do not do it enough."

He makes a show of turning his body further in her direction and settles in for the conversation. "Ziva," he says, lowering his voice. "Feel free to go into as much detail as you want on this."

"No details," she replies with a shrug, disappointing him. "I am just sad that I have not made time for such pleasures."

"I'm sad too." He doesn't explain that his sadness is directly related to her not kissing him. He is, as it happens, perversely delighted to hear that she hasn't been kissing anyone else. "So, what kind of kiss are we talking about? A cheek kiss? Peck? Close-mouthed smooch? Or lying down, hands getting to work, mood music, out-of-breath making out?"

Ziva smiles and drops her eyes to her shoe. She swings her leg back and forth. "All of the above. But the last sounds particularly nice."

"Doesn't it?" he says encouragingly.

She hums, and although he waits for her to share more thoughts about her desire to be kissed frequently and thoroughly, it seems as though she is content to just dangle a morsel in front of him and then let him go quietly mad.

Classic Ziva.

In the short lull in conversation that follows he can hear people walking down the corridor outside their cabin. Their muffled conversation is tinged with energy and potentially excitement, and Tony takes a moment to wonder if this increased activity means the train might start moving again soon. He discreetly turns his wrist to check the time again. It's 11.54pm—they've been stalled for about an hour, and he's more than ready to get going again.

"I think we both need to find a work/life balance," she tells him.

"What's that?" he quips.

"It is when people have a life outside of work," she tells him, allowing him to play dumb.

Tony shakes his head. "I don't understand."

"Some people," she begins, leaning into him slightly, "do not work all the time. They leave their office in the evening and then go home to pursue other interests and see loved ones."

"Loved ones?"

"Including people they like to kiss a lot."

"Well. I'm sold."

She pauses and then gives a bittersweet smile as she stares across the cabin out the window. "I know you did not, but I always knew this would be my life."

The comment is like a slap after the softness of what came before. He knows she is probably telling the truth, but it pains him to think that despite the changes in her life over the last decade, she still sees her future as being wholly devoted to work. If he has any say in the matter—which, right now, he knows he doesn't—things are going to change for her. She is going to be kissed by a loved one at home and at a reasonable hour on a weeknight, damn it.

"It doesn't have to be."

His grab at something aspirational hangs in the air, awaiting rejection or agreement.

"Hmm," she says finally, and he supposes that suggests she's unconvinced. "I am not necessarily unhappy with it."

"Except when it gets in the way of kissing." He has to cling to that.

"Obviously."

They're quiet for a moment as Tony tries to work out how to move the conversation oh-so-naturally to an open invitation to kiss him whenever she wants. Or tonight, at the very least, in about five minutes' time.

"Do you know what I would like for your life?" Ziva suddenly asks, and he's so intrigued by this that he lets out an inelegant grunt of question. Ziva smiles and glances at him before turning her eyes to the supposed safety of his knee. "I want you to take the lead. You deserve more. You can handle more. Your own team. A chance to do things your own way. Choose your own adventure, yes?" She flashes another quick smile at him, but he feels her nerves like a tangible weight pushing at his shoulder.

Or maybe that's just her shoulder.

He stares at her downcast eyes as he tries to form a response that adequately conveys his feelings about her idea. "You hated it when I was team leader," he reminds her, and his voice is much louder than he'd intended. But it makes his point nicely.

Ziva rolls her eyes to herself and gives a little shake of her head. "I did not hate it," she insists. "It was simply difficult to cope with Gibbs being gone so suddenly. And with my partner becoming my boss. And at the time you were also becoming a close friend. It was a confusing time."

"So, we're friends?" he baits, hoping for a smile of historical acknowledgement. Instead, the comment makes her sigh and pinch the bridge of her nose.

"That was an even more confusing time," she says thickly, and suddenly there is a lump in his throat. The year after she returned from Somalia—after he went and got her and added yet another stamp in his How is this my life? book—was rough for them. And definitely confusing. And he gets that maybe she isn't ready to laugh about it yet.

"Yeah, I know," he says quickly, assuring her he knows where she's coming from and is fine with whatever her lingering feelings might be.

She lifts a hand to adjust her beanie. "Of course we are friends," she says softly. "The Saint Bernard and the Robot, yes? I am sorry if I cast doubt on that."

Impulsively, he puts his hand on hers. "You didn't," he lies convincingly. "I knew you were working through stuff. So was I." He waits until she smiles and nods before adding, "Although I'm questioning your friendly feelings now if you want me to leave the team."

Her narrowed eyes display exasperation, but of the sort she feels when she is actually not at all exasperated with him. "I don't, DiNozzo," she huffs, and then, to his dismay, she gets to her feet and wanders over to the window again. The sudden distance creates an ache in his chest. "I am trying to pay you a compliment. I am happy with you as my partner and wish for you to stay that way for as long as possible. But you can do better."

"Than you?" His eyebrows rise so fast they could shoot off his face.

"Than being senior agent," she corrects, and then shoots him a self-assured smile over her shoulder. "You cannot possibly do better than me."

As if he doesn't know it. He gives her a telling look that makes her look down and away again.

"So, that's what you want for my life, huh?" he says. The thought of striking out on his own both excites and terrifies him, and he files it away for future consideration.

"One of several things," she replies. "But the only one I am willing to go into detail about at the moment."

He frowns. "Is that because the other things involve murder, or…?"

She turns to him and rolls her eyes so hard that for a moment it looks like she's about to pass out. "Yes, Tony," she drawls with derision. "I want you to be murdered."

"Thanks for the heads up, I guess."

She turns back to the window and gestures outside with her chin. "I can see several men out there with lamps on their heads."

Tony gets up and ignores the momentary protest of his back muscles as he joins her by the window and looks out. There are, true to her word, several men out there with lights attached to their hats. They are pointing at the tracks and gesturing to each other, and Tony can't work out if they look angry or pleased.

"I sincerely hope that they're just doing a routine safety check before we take off again," he tells her.

"You are keen to get back to civilization?"

"Don't take this the wrong way, sweetcheeks," he says, and swings his head around to look at her. Her face is upturned towards him and her lips are pink and so very inviting. "I don't want to spend New Year's Eve—or any eve—on a freezing cold, stalled train. But if I have to, I'm glad I'm doing it with you."

Those pink lips part and curl upwards at the corners. "You really are a hopeless romantic."

He shrugs as voices outside their cabin get much louder. "It's my dirty little secret."

They stare at each other from just inches apart, and suddenly Tony's not as cold as he was. His cheeks warm as his heart rate picks up with anticipation and a tingle rushes down his spine. One of them sways closer, or maybe they both do, until their chests are touching. Ziva's expression softens and her eyes flick to his mouth, and those tingles spread through his chest and up into the pleasure center of his brain. It has been so, so long since the last time he kissed her. He can't let it go on.

The voices outside start yelling, and it takes Tony a few moments to get the gist of what their French-speaking traveling companions are saying. Three, two, one, Happy New Year!

Ziva glances back at the door to their cabin and begins to translate for him. "They are saying that it is—"

But he cuts her off with a hand on her cheek that turns her face back to him. "I got it," he tells her, and inclines his head towards her. "Happy New Year."

He sees her eyes widen and lips part in the moment before he brings his mouth down on hers. He thinks she can't possibly be surprised, but if she is she recovers quickly to grip at his coat and lean into the kiss. It's the warmest, deepest and most delicious kiss he's had in forever, surrounded by her warmth, her smell, her softness, her Zivaness. A rush of endorphins race through his veins to saturate every nerve, and if he could stay here all year to next New Year's, he would.

Finally, regretfully, they part, and Ziva looks up at him with heavy eyes, wet lips and flushed cheeks. She is perfection.

"Well, the year is off to a good start, resolution-wise," she says. Her voice is like sandpaper, and in this context he thinks it might be the sexiest thing he's ever heard.

Tony nods slowly—the ability to speak is a smidge beyond him right now—and thinks about kissing her again. But then the train lurches forward and the two of them trip and tumble against the back wall of the cabin. He lands awkwardly on his shoulder as he tries desperately not to crush her between him and the wall, and feels a slice of pain through the joint. He starts to groan before Ziva pulls on his collar, directing his head down and towards her again.

"Happy New Year," she breathes, and picks up again where they left off. He doesn't want to brag, but they are already good at this. By the time they get to Milan, he expects they will be experts.

Tony still has no idea how this became his life. But in moments like this, when it's just him and Ziva and bold-faced affection between them, he can only be thankful that it is.

Just a little bit of sweet nothingness for you. I'm not sure it works—I haven't written anything in quite a while and I feel very rusty—but it's something.