Pairing: Tony DiNozzo/Ziva David
Notes: Spoilers for 4x01 "Shalom". Thanks to the prodding from piecesofalice, and my own twisted brain. Random and off the cuff. And Pálinka is Hungarian plum brandy, and the title is from Sahara Hotnights' "Impressed By Me".
"Parcheesi," she says, questioning and scorn both evident in her voice. Ziva raises an artful brow and waits for Tony to answer, to explain why he is on her door step with a tattered board game in one hand and a bottle of expensive bourbon in the other.
Tony's smile fixes in place, like he's going into battle, and he elbows past and into her apartment, letting out a low whistle of appreciation.
Of what, she doesn't want to know. She's still in a small state of shock that she pronounced the American name of the game correctly.
She beats him two games out of three before he starts talking.
They are shaken, vulnerable, but not destroyed. She makes this clear to Tony, with a tone and conviction that surprises even herself. They aren't without a leader. He is their leader.
"So you better not fuck up, Tony," she tells him, leaning against his shoulder. He is warm and smells clean, sharp, and Ziva very much wants to fall asleep now. "I do not particularly feel like breaking in McGee." She means to sound reserved, sarcastic, but when the last of her statement is broken by a yawn, it becomes a moot point.
The second week, it's Ziva's turn to pick out the alcohol, and she enjoys watching Tony's face fall as she produces several bottles of a plain, American beer. Long-necks.
He tells stories about Gibbs. About Abby and Duckie and McGee, about all the things she missed before she arrived the year before. He doesn't speak of Kate. That will always be complicated.
She is tight-lipped about her own past, and Tony doesn't seem to mind.
They are bonding, she thinks, for the good of the team. Two strong parts to take over for the one. It's a reason that serves to justify in the warm haze of intoxication, but in the cold light of day -- or rather, in the mortifying heat and humidity of a Washington summer -- her reasoning doesn't stand up as well.
But in the light of day, they have other things to worry about.
It is McGee and Abby that take the longest to re-emerge into the world. Tony does well with both of them, acting as big brother and confidant, leader. She sits back and watches, supports. Ziva knows that's needed now more than her usual fighting against the grain, and it only surprises her how easy it is to relax into Tony's control.
Though, when she conspires with McGee to glue everything to DiNozzo's desk, Ziva takes great pleasure in trading barbs with Tony for the rest of the week. Just like old times.
He still shows up Tuesday night, this time with pizza. He learns to bring two.
They sit together on her couch, an overstuffed-beige thing that Tony hates as much as she does. It's too American somehow, all perfect and soft, and as Tony says, "It lacks flair." But they always end up there first, eating pizza or Chinese, or a take-away curry, while mocking the other's choice in alcoholic beverages.
Then Tony finds a bad movie on cable -- sometimes Ziva does too -- and they spend the next few hours throwing popcorn at the screen, counting the explosions, making up dialogue for the crappy villains and henchmen.
The first time Tony falls asleep in her lap, she screeches in his ear to wake him up. The next time, she lets him be and learns that Tony talks in his sleep.
She sends him instant messages all the next day, teasing him about what he said the night before. The last merely says, "Fluffy slippers?" and thoroughly confuses McGee when he turns off Tony's computer that night.
There is no seduction, per se. They do not fall into bed easily. In fact, there is squabbling, and pinching, a fair amount of hair pulling, and neither one of them has a viable shirt to wear afterwards.
It has been coming since day one, and Ziva is smug in this knowledge, though she's loathe to admit it, even now, with Tony's body arching against hers, his mouth closed at her shoulder, sucking a brand into her flesh. There's no give and take, and when he smiles at her all dark and wicked, Ziva feels alive.
She flips them, mutters something in her own language distractedly. And then she's straddling him, and he's inside her, hot and tight and her thighs clench, squeeze and the pressure thrums through her body. The rhythm she sets is steady, hard, but when her hands clasp his, it is tender and sensual. She tries to kiss him like that, but at first he doesn't let it happen. Then she slows her body down, and curse all, starts to savor the feel of him, but it's Tony's hips and mouth and eyes that really know what to do, and Ziva hates his bragging, but now admits that there's some truth to it all -- and then he lets her kiss him, long and slow and sinking.
Tony works his hands free, settles one on her hip, guiding, possessing, damn him, while the other works its way up her side and cups her breast so lightly she almost doesn't feel the burn of his skin on her own. As soon as she closes her eyes again in concentration, focusing on the sound of her breathing, of his, the way small sounds vibrate up through his chest -- his thumb brushes over her nipple, barely there and just enough to trip the wire. She doesn't cry when he says her name, full of regret and promise for all the things they've seen, done, but she doesn't smile either.
The next week he brings Monopoly, and she groans. Tony looks entirely too amused by her response, so she makes him promise that there will be no strip Monopoly.
"Besides Tony, it is simply not practical."
Tony blinks and tries to look innocent. It doesn't work.
"Fine," he answers, grinning like smarm is something he eats for breakfast. "It wouldn't be much of a contest. I'd whip your ass, Officer David. But then, you'd like that, wouldn't you?"
He is insufferable, no matter how good he is in bed. Or how good of an agent he really is. Insufferable, plain and simple. So Ziva just narrows her eyes again, and smacks him on the ass.
"I bought Pálinka. You'll like it."