She shows up on his doorstep swallowed by the rain and the leather jacket he'd left at her place months ago, rain running from her hair and dripping from her eyelashes and he doesn't care that his once-favorite coat's probably ruined. He doesn't care there's old beer bottles on the floor from before they sent him to sea, or that he's met her at the threshold in nothing but an pair of Family Guy boxers that are wearing away in the ass. There is a darkness residing in and ringing her eyes and she doesn't say a thing, just stands there with water pooling around her feet and streaking what's left of her makeup down her face, clutching his jacket around her like it's the last thing left holding her in one piece.

...

She sears his nerves.

The heat is white and blinding and he falls into her so easily, and she arches lithe and sinuous beneath his weight and god, her mouth—she licks his skin with fire and he almost hurts with how she overwhelms him.

...

"God, Ziva," he says and draws her inside and he throws the soaking jacket into the bathtub, almost before she can shrug herself out of it. She stands in front of his couch waiting for him, not wanting to sit down and soak that, too. He throws her two towels, which she catches one-handed, then Tony takes one back and begins to rub her hair dry. She doesn't protest. He'd expected at least a little resistance; this is Ziva, of all women, and Ziva does not accept help unless she specifically asks for it. But instead she leans almost imperceptibly back into his hands and his fingers work a little more gently through the towel, a burgeoning sense of dread leeching like indigestion through his gut. Something has to be wrong.

...

She pulls back for half a heartbeat and looks at him with something he can't place, and Tony wants to ask her what it is but his voice is stuck deep in his throat; he's lost in this woman and her hands that work him breathless, and the words just aren't worth it in the end.

...

She's still dripping, this time leaving cold wet spots on his bare feet and legs, and when his flesh erupts in goosebumps he offers to find her something dry to wear. Ziva accepts, but by the time he trots back to the living room with sweats and an old OSU shirt in hand she's already stripped down to her underthings, and as his eyes slide over her Tony doesn't know whether he's intruding or accepting an invitation. She's wringing out her hair into the towel, her back to him, and just for a second he thinks the black bra and panties slung low on her hips are so like Ziva he almost laughs. Even her unmentionables would be as no-nonsense as the rest of her (though every fantasy he's ever had of her-and there have been many-finds her in things involving a bit more lace and much, much less actual fabric). He clears his throat, albeit awkwardly, to herald his presence, and if he didn't know her as well as he did Tony would have thought he'd seen the faintest blush rise on the back of her neck.

...

In the darkness he can't tell so much anymore which heat belongs to him and which to Ziva, but the way her flesh burns beneath his palms he can tell where flushed desire stains roses into olive skin. He will kiss and stroke and worship every inch until it spreads.

...

But she is Ziva, and he knows her better than…well, he used to know her. Or he thought he did. A lot can happen in four months at sea.

...

He coaxes gasp after gasp from her throat. Sound and sensation flood through the months and memories and shatter them until he can't remember what it felt like to spend the night alone; the summerful of absence now steeped and full to bursting with the feel of her.

...

Tony at least still knows her well enough to figure the faint color at her nape isn't a blush, more likely from the friction of the towel against her neck. He hands over the makeshift pajamas and tries not to notice the way her muscles undulate beneath her skin as she raises her arms, lets his shirt fall down to cover the sultry curves he's a bit disappointed to see hidden again; as long as he's being honest with himself, he might as well admit that the sight of those curves was every bit as worth it as he's imagined for the past three years. And the fact that his wandering eyes hadn't been met with thinly veiled death threats? Tony's more thankful for that than he has right to be.

...

Her eyes flutter closed and he buries his face in the curve where her neck meets her shoulder, and he has to close his eyes to commit the feel of her hands on him to memory, the way her fingers grasp and tighten and dig into his muscles and then relax, caress his skin in circles, clench again, caress again .

...

His clothes swallow her. His shirt falls halfway down her thighs and god, it's bordering on cute. Ha, Ziva and cute in the same sentence. A little oxymoronic, but fitting nonetheless. She asks what she should do with her sopping shirt and jeans and Tony has to smile, taking them and throwing them to drip out with his jacket in the tub. His grin apparently puzzles her, and just for a second Ziva narrows her eyes, brows tilted downward. There is color and life in her face, and she doesn't look as lost anymore.

...

He holds her so tight his arms ache, but even though he's crushed her to his chest she isn't nearly close enough. Her hand fists in his hair, she forces his mouth to her neck and each deliberate kiss feels familiar and new all at once, something to be savored because God knows what might happen tomorrow. She's wrapped around him everywhere, he can't tell where she ends or he begins and fuck he doesn't care.

...

And then Tony has to step away because the moment is too suddenly intimate for him, his grin and her wearing his clothes and their sharing a space much more personal than their desks at work. Alarm bells are ringing in his head but his smile widens anyway, because goddammit, it's just so unbearably good to see her.

...

She bites her lip and presses her face to his shoulder and rides out fierce release in strangled silence. She shudders and he rocks her gently down, her body warm and pliant in his arms, and he finds her ragged breaths almost too much because he knows that now she's shown him who she is at her most private.

...

"It's nice to see you again, Ziva." The crooked, boyish smile feels at home on his face. "Real nice."

...


A/N: So this was me, typing away until 3 in the morning, trying something new. Thanks for taking a look-I hope you liked it! Let me know what you think?