Her hair falls in twists today, and he'd be lying if he said it wasn't distracting. His hand itches to touch the wild tangles that so embody her entire spirit, so he sits on it and forces himself to watch the movie, waiting for her to make the first move.

He has never been a patient person.

Probie and Probette would tell him it is because he is still a child, and therefore lacks the attention span to sit still for more than five minutes at a time. And a year ago, they would have been right.

Oh, how things change.

Seven months he's been waiting. Seven long, dreary, boring, and sex-less months.

He's not entirely sure what he's been waiting for—for the storm to calm, for the flood of emotions like hate and hurt to dry up, for Ziva to let him in?

In the end, it won't really matter about the what, but only about the fact that he's been waiting. Patiently, even. He realizes that he can't push her; he cannot force her to open up to him.

Because she will, eventually. One day—whether in a week, a year, or an entire lifetime—she will start really trusting him again, and when she does, everything will fall into place after it. He knows this because he sees it in those quiet moments—when she talks about Salim, when she lays next to him under a Parisian sky.

Everyday, the pain in her eyes becomes a little less resistant.

They are so symbiotic, sometimes, that he believes one day he may look in the mirror and see dark Israeli eyes stare back at him, but other times, he looks at her and can make neither head nor tail of their conversation.

Loving her is a lot like breathing.

He cannot live without it.

By the end of the movie, he is not sure which he watched more, the screen or her face.

(Of course, he's lying to himself: she will always win out over everything.)

And still he waits.


hold your breath