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This one is called: It's Just Paris
She entered the room, her fury about to tumble over onto her lips, and form into words…
Tony walked in behind her and she was hyper aware of him. Her anger was very obviously a displacement on passion or lust or incorrectly communicated—or hidden—emotions… Damn the time she’d spent with Ducky. That lovable man’s psycho babble was really starting to affect her…
Tony walked all the way into the room and, without a word, starting undressing. Swallowing past her misplaced anger, she cocked her head and said in her thick Israeli accent, (the one that appeared whenever she was either heavily intoxicated or extremely horny, and it was a little bit of both in this case thanks to the alcohol on the flight) “What do you think you’re doing?”
“Getting comfortable, Ziva. You might wanna do the same, seeing at how you’ll be sleeping on the couch.”
She scowled. “Why are you so…edible?”
He froze, looked up, caught in the middle of his stripping, down to his boxers, and said, “Well, I’ve always been this gorgeous, but I think you mean irritable. And I’m irritable because you bugged me the whole flight.”
But Ziva wasn’t listening. She was staring at his chest, his legs, his neck, his lips… Damn, how badly she wanted to kiss those lips. Yet, her being Ziva, she shook off the feeling and frowned. “I was mearly trying to understand those strange vampire novels you are reading. The boy loves the girl but the girl loves the hairy one?”
Tony smiled before he could help himself. Still, he ignored her, getting ready to climb into bed.
The tension in the room, with every word that Ziva wanted to say and every move Tony made that seemed to be lined with stress, could be cut with a knife. Shirtless, he closed his eyes and settled into the pillows. Paris was having an effect on him that he under no circumstances could even hope to understand.
He had spent hours on that flight with her and then another while trying to find the hotel room and get settled in. No reservations had been made so they were forced to share one room. Granted it was a spacious room, but Tony knew he had to fall asleep before her so that she would not bother him with her god-awful snoring.
Sleep drifted over him like a comforting blanket, but through the fog he heard, “Tony, we’re in Paris.”
“I hadn’t noticed,” he said sarcastically, keeping his heavy lids shut. “Now shut up and go to sleep.”
The silence had convinced him that she was moving around in her normal, or rather abnormal depending on how you looked at it, way—silent Mossad trained assassin way. But instead she was looking out the window, praying that maybe her silent hope wouldn’t become so silent anymore… But she couldn’t do it.
Tony opened his eyes slightly and noticed her staring problematically out the window. “What’s wrong?”
“Huh?” Her hair whirled around her neck as she looked back at the bed. “Oh. Nothing. Just thinking.”
“Zee-vah, you’re not a thinking kind of person.”
“I am a person, Tony. That is reason enough to think.”
He sat up, instantly knowing he would regret what he was about to say. But then his thought process changed. A single tear ran down from the fearless female agent’s eye and he realized… “You thought something was going to happened between us tonight.”
“That is the most stupid thing I have ever heard, Tony.”
“Not when it’s true.”
“I… I did not assume anything. I have nothing but platonic…” she hesitated, hoping that was the correct word.
“Nothing but platonic feelings for me?” Tony asked, trying to keep his Adam’s apple from bobbing.
Ziva closed her eyes and resisted the urge to say what she wanted to…
Without acknowledging the fact that Tony had spoken, she sat on the couch and stared at the black television screen. Her tears fell silently and a sound was made that made it appear as if Tony had relaxed back against the pillows once more, but in truth, both of them were wide awake now—caught in the fear of maybe almost admitting feelings for each other that were much, much more than friendly.
“It’s just Paris,” Tony whispered to himself. There’s a reason I want to kiss her right now. It’s just Paris: The City of Love. I’m not in love. Not at all.
But it wasn’t. And he was. And so was she. For better or for worse. Mostly worse.
Btw, the little vampire piece in there is because Tony talked on the episode this fic is based on about how he's Team Edward for Twilight. Not my idea.
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