Hey all – I got a random urge to write something new and ended up with this. Just be advised that it's got a little sex scene that I tried not to make too explicit – not really sure what's ok and not here.

Enjoy, and let me know what you think and if you'd like to see more of these short little things in between/when I need a break from Broken Silence

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Spirits. A story told from Ziva's point of view.

I don't know what possessed me that night. Maybe it was the look on his face when our witness – a young, pretty thing – turned up dead.

He had vowed, just that morning, to protect her, after she looked up at him with these big, blue, watering eyes. I knew she had used those eyes on more than one man before.

They certainly worked on Tony.

Or maybe it was the look he didn't have on his face, when just a few hours later, he killed the marine that had made him break his promise, taking blue eyes' life.

I had been with the marine. Sure, he had a gun trained on my head, same as he had done with the girl, but I was prepared to take him down.

Gibbs had taken Tony's gun, after. Told him to go home.

And so I found myself inside Tony's doorway. Most people, yes, they find themselves at someone's door. But, I admit, I picked his lock because I knew he'd never open it if he saw me there.

"Ahh," I said slowly, as I took him in. Full suit, complete with bloodstains across the white shirt and tie. An opened, but barely touched, bottle of bourbon to his left.

"I see you started without me."

He made no move to silence me, tell me to get lost. So I sat beside him, placing a chilled bottle of vodka on the coffee table.

I've been accused of many things, perhaps the worst being that I'm completely devoid of emotions.

Here I'd argue. It's not that I'm without feelings. It's just that I express them in a different way.

Some might say I don't know how to express my feelings at all.

I'd have to agree.

And so I brought my father's remedy. Numb the pain and loosen you up enough to start talking.

He still had yet to acknowledge me. I pulled two glasses from the kitchen, I knew he kept the drinking glasses in the cabinet to the right of the sink, and poured us each a generous shot.

"Drink, Tony." I pushed the glass into his hands, and as my fingers grazed his knuckles I searched his eyes for a reaction.

He kept my gaze as he knocked back the liquid. Clear, smooth, it only burned at the end.

I lowered onto the coffee table, sitting directly in front of him. Our knees touched. I poured him another shot, and he drank.

"Here, Tony," I whispered, hoping that I sounded soothing and comforting. I took the glass from his hand. He was looking right at me, but I couldn't quite tell what he was seeing.

It definitely, was not, me.

I loosened his tie until it slid over his neck. Undid the buttons on his crisp shirt.

"Did you come over to have your way with me?"

Ah-ha. So he speaks.

"You know I can't resist a vulnerable man."

This time he reached for the bottle on his own, filling the glass halfway.

He held it up to the light, examining the clear liquor.

"Half full or half empty?"

I did not understand what he asked. And so he took a large swig before pressing the drink to my hands. "Half empty," He answered, for me.

His knee nudged mine when I didn't drink. So I took a sip, wincing as it burned.

He laughed. "Ms. Mossad Assasin can't handle her liquor?"

I took a larger sip.

If you had been with us this evening, you might think I was a bad person. Forcing alcohol on a grieving, traumatized man?

Or actually, you would probably think much less of me if you've known me all along. Did you not catch the Mossad assassin reference?

But you see, it's a thing. Something that Tony and I do.

The first time, he came to my apartment after I killed a man who turned out to be innocent. I was already drunk, and he joined.

The next time, it was I who came to him. And three years later, we sit here, I on the coffee table and he on the couch, the exact same way we sat the very first time.

And no, I don't mean the first time we drank away our sorrows together.

The first time we had sex.

It was Tony's apartment, that night, about a year after we started drinking together. A marine's son had been found, dead, in the trunk of the car. Tony had formed a bond with the kid before the kidnapping, and well, you can imagine the mess it created in his head.

I had brought scotch that night. I don't know why we choose the liquors we do, but between Tony and I, we've managed to get our hands on every brand and make imaginable.

Did I mention we see a lot in our job? Did I mention how much we silently grieve?

Tony's shirt was off, as it was tonight, but balled in the corner and stained with the little boy's blood. I sat on the coffee table and sipped my scotch slowly, waiting for him to talk.

Because you see, that's why this is my father's remedy. No matter what, once you've had enough, you talk. You may not remember – you probably will not remember. But you talk. You release.

Tony did not talk that night. Not about the little boy. Instead he said to me, "Ziva, have I ever told you how much I want to kiss you?"

I stood up then, closing the gap between Tony and I, kneeling on the couch, between his legs, so that I was taller than him. Looked down into his eyes.

I kissed him. Once. Softly. Pulled my head away and his lips followed, asking for more. I leaned in again, let my lips linger and then finally, part. I felt his tongue inside my mouth for just a second before I pulled away.

"Tony," I asked. "What else have you wanted?"

You would think that two partners finally acting on years of suppressed tension would be one of two things. Either uncomfortable, awkward, unsure, or fast and fierce, over before it hardly began.

But with us, it was neither. It was tempting and loving. Slow. Natural.

When he first touched me, his hand slipping underneath my pants, my thong, in response to my question, I shivered.

It was bold.

It was amazing.

And yes, even Mossad assassins wear sexy underwear.

I was still kneeling between him, as his fingers moved in circular motions. My legs opened slightly, and I moaned as he stopped, his fingers undoing my belt buckle, and then the buttons on my jeans.

He slowly, carefully undressed me. Fingers lingering, moving and rubbing in places I never knew could scream pleasure.

I let him play for awhile, my hands clutching his back, squeezing, shuddering.

And when he finally came up, resting his head for a second on my stomach, his tongue darting over my left breast, I took the opportunity to unbuckle, and then slide off his jeans.

We sat there, for a moment. Like two kids experiencing naked bodies for the first time. And then he took my hand, pulled me up and led me to his bedroom.

He motioned for me to lie down first, and he climbed on top, supporting himself with his hands.

I could feel him, hard, against me, and I spread my legs wider, begging him to go in.

But he waited.

"Ziva," He whispered. His eyes locked into mine and I could feel a closeness, a connection, that was deeper than anything we had before.

And it wasn't just the sex.

"This. This is what I have wanted."

And he didn't just mean the sex.

My lips parted slightly.

He spoke again. "Do you understand? What I am saying?"

My voice came out in a cracked whisper. "Yes."

He leaned forward and placed a kiss on my left cheek, right below my eye.

And then he entered me.

I'm not sure how long we rolled together. Screamed. Bit and thrust and changed positions.

It was when we finally lay there, wet, satiated, fingers touching, did he speak. We were naked, uncovered. Exposed. The sun had come up, casting a hue of purple over the room.

And he talked about the little boy.

Ever since that night we have added sex to our list of how we comfort our partner.

Drink heavily? Check.

Orgasm? Check.

Sometimes we make up excuses to see each other. Sometimes we steal away for the whole weekend, usually in his apartment because it's less like military quarters than mine. Once in a small, wooded cabin.

It is a secret that we hide well. We are flirtatious and indignant and angry and joking at work. Same as we always have been.

And they don't know.

Gibbs might know.

But he doesn't speak.

And so tonight, I again sit across from Tony. As he reaches his arms to me, pulling me into his chest, I burn and pulse and want inside.

I am off the coffee table, and into his arms, but he just leans back. Holds me.

His arms are tight. Fingers stroke my back.

And he speaks. "It's too easy to lose someone you love."

I lean into him and smile. Stroke his hair. Let it out, Tony.

"When I saw his gun on you, I realized. It would kill me, to lose you, Ziva."

I had been in far more danger before. Today was nearly run of the mill, life as an NCIS agent.

But apparently, not for Tony.

And so I moved my fingers to his belt buckle, grabbing him through his jeans. But his fingers threaded mine, stopping my attack.

"I just, want, to hold you."

No man had ever 'just held me' before.

But I complied.

And we lay there together. Occasionally, he would speak. Sometimes, I would, too. I guess after all this time, after all these drunken confessions, we had gotten pretty good at talking. Being intimate with one another.

Alcohol not required.

And once more that evening, we found ourselves in the very same position as the night we first had sex. Laying on his bed. Naked. Exposed. Vulnerable.

Fingers touching.

Except we did not have sex. Not even fooled around.

As the sun came up, it again cast a purplish hue in his room. I think Tony knew, as well as I did at that very moment, that what lay between us was much more than drunken sex, slurred confessions.

I squeezed his fingers.

In not so many words, he had said that he loved me.

And I. Well.

Should you be wondering, Mossad Assasins, they do fall in love.

...

Alright, loves, hit that little reply button! Let me know what you think about this short fic I wrote on a whim this evening!