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He should be dead tired because to his body, this is the tail end of the night, but having slept on the plane and now being greeted by an incredibly brilliant sky helps, and so he only feels bouncy and excited while Ziva grabs them a cab.
When he tells the driver to "take the scenic route", he feels her gaze on him and turns to her. "What? You have been here before, I haven't," he shrugs, then smiles his best winning smile for her because lately it has shown some effect even on her. "Indulge me, oh dearest partner of mine? Just this once?"
She tilts her head to the side and meets his eyes, and there's something going on that he doesn't quite get yet. Eventually, her face softens, and she leans over to the cabby and says something in French Tony doesn't understand. From the noises the man makes in return, though, it seems like a good suggestion.
She leans back in her seat, not looking at Tony, but smiling ever so slightly.
*** *** ***
Later, he will neither remember the name of the café she takes him to nor that it gives them a rather spectacular view across the Seine. He will remember the incredible chocolaty taste of the dessert she orders for them (one dish, two spoons) and how she looks at him expectantly while he tries it. How she watches him enjoy the rich flavor that sends sparkles of delight all over his tongue. How she laughs and just nods when he asks if he can have the last spoonful, please?
He will not remember the song that's playing at that moment, but he will remember vividly how content she looks while he finishes his latte and she her tea. And how that makes him stand up eventually and pull her to her feet until she follows him to the terrace and shares a dance with him, with another of those low laughs deep in her throat. How relaxed it feels to have her right arm on his shoulder, thumb brushing his neck, while her left hangs by her side loosely and he holds her hand anyway, not to lead in the dance-embrace, but just to touch her skin and feel her fingers mingle with his. How much that tastes like the real dessert.
And yes, he will remember how well she sways with him and how easily she anticipates his movements. How, for once, this isn't a struggle at all, but a cooperation. And a damn fine one, at that.
*** *** ***
She stops to look at the postcards because she has promised to send Abby one, and that is when he remembers his camera for the first time. Too bad there is no time for real sightseeing.
*** *** ***
The hotel looks really nice. Not one of the big business temples, but rather homey and - for lack of a better word - romantic. Somehow it is, at least to his male American mind, very much a spitting image of everything he has always associated with Paris and therefore, almost a touch too much. Almost, but not quite yet.
"One key?" he asks when she returns from reception, raising an eyebrow, and she shrugs and swings her overnight bag over her shoulder. He's not sure what this is about, but he has handed over the lead in this, so he sticks to his role and follows her to their room.
It is a lovely one, with just one very much king-sized bed, and his mind stumbles for a heartbeat because it does look utterly perfect and therefore, is almost, almost too much, again. Still not quite there yet, so he just drops his bag, closes the door, leans back against it and watches her throw her own bag down on the bed.
"Left side," she announces while she slips out of her shoes and jacket.
"Then I get the shower first," he replies with a laugh, kicks off his shoes and starts to strip. When he is down to his pants and already halfway in the bathroom, he stops and turns to look at her. She's - efficient as ever - almost done with unpacking the few things she needs, and when she feels him watch her, she raises her head and meets his gaze. "What is this, Ziva?"
Her face is unreadable, but she's wearing a much softer expression than she usually does when he asks her something. And then she shrugs again and looks away. "Indulgence, maybe."
*** *** ***
He jumps and almost drops the soap he's been abusing as a microphone substitute when the door of the shower stall opens and Ziva rushes inside. "What the... Hey! A little privacy here?"
"You had forty minutes of privacy, Tony," she answers calmly while she closes the door behind herself again. "We have dinner reservations, and we will never make it if I wait for you to finish. So move over or do this efficiently." And she turns her back to him and starts soaping up.
He grumbles but can't help acknowledging that she is right. He's not sure sharing a shower is a good idea, though. No, wait - he is pretty sure it's one of those ideas that actually screams 'Danger, danger, Will Robinson!' at the top of its lungs.
Because technically, they have that nice little agreement that what happened once would not happen again. And technically, they have never called that one off. And technically, just looking at her like that, all naked, wet, with clouds of steam wafting up around her - that feels like trouble stirring up the almost, but not quite, perfect dance.
"At least make yourself useful while you are just standing there gawking," she says after a while, and when he just frowns, she sighs and looks at him over her shoulder. "Back? Now?"
And he complies, of course, because touching her in a purely mechanical fashion is supposed to be easier than looking at her and musing how many days it has been exactly since he has felt her skin against his. So he gets his hands all foamy while she grabs her shampoo bottle and starts to work on her hair. The moment he reaches out and presses his hands to her lower back, though, something shifts, and even though she doesn't pause for a single heartbeat, he knows she feels it, too.
Her muscles are tense under his hands, and so instead of just scrubbing the spots she has trouble reaching, he begins to press his fingers into her skin soon, following and loosening the knots. Tries to draw the tension out of her stiff muscles while he runs his soapy hands over her back.
It takes some time and effort, but she eases up gradually, and when her own hands slow in her hair, he knows that she has closed her eyes now, concentrating more on what he is doing to her. He starts on her shoulders then, his thumbs working her muscles, and that is when he feels the first of her new scars. Not noticeable normally, but now, with her body relaxing against his, there is a ridge across her shoulder blade when he brushes his fingertip across it. He traces its length, is tempted to go back and do it again, but then decides to just move on, and she acts as if nothing has happened. She's not as good at that as she used to be, though.
There is a second scar, at the base of her neck, just hidden by her hairline, and this time she really trembles when he runs his thumb across it. Her breathing quickens, and because it does not feel like the good kind of thrill to him, he just moves his fingers further up as if he hasn't noticed anything odd. There are more, he is sure about that, but this is not the time and place to search for them.
The foam of her shampoo feels so soft that he keeps his hands in her hair instead and rubs her neck. She shudders again as his fingertips explore the sensitive patch of skin just behind her ears, then move up, pretending to wash her hair when he is actually massaging her head softly. It doesn't take long until she falls back against him with a soft sigh, and the sudden feel of her, all wet and soft and, well, all of her against his skin is a shock to his senses and almost too much.
He keeps his fingers moving, rubs her temples now, and she murmurs something so soft that he isn't sure if she's mumbling in Hebrew or English. It doesn't help that her hand is reaching back now, holding on to his hip as if for support while she turns her head into the spray of the water coming over his shoulder. Her eyes are still closed, and that looks so fucking intimate right now that it makes his breath catch in his throat.
He runs his hands through her hair to wash the shampoo out, and she keeps her eyes shut and lets him do it. Her lips part, and that is when his hand strays from its safe path the first time, brushes down the side of her neck because he can't help it. She shudders against him, and this is it, the right kind of thrill, finally, and his skin prickles when she turns into his almost-embrace. For the span of a few heartbeats he simply stares at her, not quite sure what to do with that incredible creature in his arms all of a sudden. Then his hands come up to frame her face, and she moves into his touch so easily that he remembers, vividly.
Her lips are so very smooth against his, and she yields so willingly that it makes his pulse beat hard and fast in his throat. He does try to be all nice and sensitive and not just back her up against the wall of the shower stall like the hungry man that he is, but she moves with him now, touching him almost from chin to toe, and it takes a stronger man to win this fight. And because she knows and because she shares his hunger, she moans into his mouth and just wraps an arm around his neck to steady herself when he presses into her.
And then he is inside her and it feels like it has always been like this, and the world that's been out of whack for weeks now falls back into its proper place all around him, just like that.
*** *** ***
They do miss the dinner reservations after that, but neither of them minds that much since room service turns out to be pretty good. They end up on the small balcony of their room later, wrapped up to their necks in bed sheets against the chilly evening air and snuggled into a lounge chair that is comfortable, but barely wide enough to support them both. The view from here is lovely, though, and they share some wine while Ziva leans back against Tony's chest and the mass of her hair, still slightly damp, falls over his shoulder.
They don't talk at all, which is just as well because this is the point where it gets to be too much for him, after all, and it makes a sweet ache rise in him, because he wants this to go on forever and it can't, can it?
Eventually, he feels her relax in the way she gets when she's really tired, and he takes that as a cue to set their glasses aside and pick her up, still wrapped up in her sheets and all, to get her back inside.
The thought crosses his mind that he has never before carried a girl to bed just to go to sleep with her. It should feel weird, really. But doesn't.
*** *** ***
He slips under the sheets with her and spoons up against her back, drawing her close, and then he breathes in deeply because it doesn't take a genius to tell that the transition to the bed has left her wide awake again. He tries to ignore the way her naked back feels against his chest, but it's all too fresh, and he has never just slept with her like that before, and so it is a bit like trying to ignore a raging wildfire coming one's way.
"Sleep, probette," he murmurs into her ear and a shiver runs through her body when she feels his breath against her cheek. And then she gets unfair and rubs herself up against him until he is all ready and willing to just sink himself into her. She turns her head, and he can't help but brush his lips against hers, and then she arches her back some more to make sure that he feels her right where it counts. His arm tightens around her waist, and she gasps at the feel.
"Sleep is for the weak," she whispers heatedly against his mouth. His hand is on her jaw again by then, tip of his ring finger brushing the jaw line, the neck, and she smiles at him, a knowing, wanting smile. And while the palm of his hand brushes along one of her nipples ever so slowly, she twitches in his arms, her head falling back against his chest. Pleads, quietly, "Tony. This won't take long."
He groans, and his fingers slide lower, down her sides, brushing her flat belly until he feels her muscles jump underneath his touch. "You're killing me here, Ziva..." he breathes and buries his face into her neck.
"Funny," she answers and presses back harder into his embrace, "because to me, you feel very much alive right now."
His hand slides between her legs then, strokes her, and her heat makes him feel dizzy again. Her body jerks, torn between rocking back against his cock and riding his fingers, and that is all it needs to make him do as she asks. She turns her head again, blindly seeking his mouth, and he's deep inside her long before the kiss ends. She groans into his mouth, and it drives him nuts when she just rolls to her belly and lets him take her hard.
She is right, he has never felt more alive. She is, however, wrong about the time frame.
*** *** ***
He knows that they should kill the lights and try to get some sleep, but he can't bring himself to reach over and disturb what feels so right. He's propped up against the headrest, with some pillows in his back, and Ziva's head rests on his tummy while the rest of her is stretched out across the width of the bed, with only her legs tangled in the sheets, one knee slightly bent. Her hair is spread out all over his chest, and he has one hand wrapped into it and can't seem to let go.
His other hand holds hers, and he also can't stop running his fingers all over her skin, can't stop pressing his thumb against the side of hers and stroking her palm and exploring how her hand feels, tangling with his like that. She smiles while he does that, and he realizes that he doesn't want her to ever lose the expression she wears right now. Which, of course, is an idle wish.
He wants to touch what has happened today, even though he knows that words are not quite the right way to address it, and so he just keeps running his hand through her hair for a while longer. And when she hums softly and turns her head so she can rest her cheek against his chest, he gets it, suddenly.
"There was no need to make Paris all about you, you know. For me, it already was," he says softly, and she opens her eyes again to look up at him. "My former French associations..." He hesitates and, to his own surprise, finds that there is no longer anything left to flinch about, just a mild, fleeting sadness that goes away with his next breath.
Her hand holds his tighter for a heartbeat, and he feels like he has unearthed one of the big things, one of those she really didn't want him to know about. And then she relaxes again, and the moment that could have gone terribly wrong rights itself. "I know that, Tony," she says, and there is something playing across her face that he can't quite place. "And I think this was not only for your benefit. I think it was, in fact..." She hesitates again, and he just keeps the touch light then, non-committal, prepared to head along whatever road she chooses now. "I think it was I who needed a new memory for Paris. A good one."
His pulse does a little pitter-patter at that, and he can't think of anything to say for a while. So he just keeps doing what he does and discovers that he has never found so much pleasure in just playing with someone's hands before. That he just loves to run his thumb along the edge of her fingers, to tickle her palm... to feel her pulse when he raises her hand to his lips and presses a quick kiss to her wrist.
"So I'm good for some nice memories?" he simply asks her in the end, and she chuckles and turns her head a bit to look at his face.
"Sometimes. When you are not too busy being twelve years old."
He melts a little inside, and while he holds her hand like this and has his other buried in her hair, telling her that he does love her has never felt more appropriate.
And she knows, of course, so she murmurs, "Don't say it."
"Say what?" he asks, feeling so busted and, strangely, guilty.
"Whatever it was you were about to say."
"Not even if I mean it?"
She smiles up at him then, not annoyed at all, but still utterly relaxed, and lovely, and loveable. "You'll regret it in the morning. Because that is how Paris works," she says. He wonders what the fuck she is talking about, and when he asks her, she just shrugs elegantly and adds, "It has that effect on people. Changes them."
He doesn't believe a word she says because right now, he is pretty damn sure he'll still mean it five more years down the road. He does honor her wish though and keeps it under locks, for now.
"Can I kiss you then?" he asks instead, and her smile turns so intimate all of a sudden that his heart jumps in his chest.
"Depends," she answers and stretches languidly all over him. "What age are you currently?"
This is when he learns that, given the right circumstances, even trained assassins have ticklish spots everywhere.
*** *** ***
The phone wakes him hard and fast, and he gets it since it's on his side of the bed. Ziva mumbles something unintelligible, and he rolls out of bed and hurries to the other side of the room to talk to the concierge.
"Yesss! Time for sightseeing!" he mutters triumphantly. And he turns back to Ziva to tell her, and for a heartbeat, that is really the only sight that matters.
She usually wakes at the crack of dawn, but not today, and she is still mostly asleep while he hangs up the phone, her limbs all over the bed. Flat on her belly, her hair spread out like a dark halo on the sheets, and all he can see is her bare back, her smooth, tan skin, her arm hanging over one side of the bed, and her wonderful legs tangled up in the rumpled sheets. And this is the one image he will take with him from Paris that does not require a camera to stay in his mind with brilliant clarity.
The moment passes, and he moves to the bed, squats down beside it so he can look into her face, and she feels him close by and blinks until her eyes focus somewhat. "Mrmwhat...?" she mumbles, and he smiles and brushes her wayward hair out of her face.
"Flight's been delayed. Would you kill me if I left you alone for a few hours?"
A soundless, tired chuckle, and her eyes drift halfway shut again. "I think I will survive."
"Me, too?"
"Yes," she murmurs, her smile half hidden by the pillow her face is pressed into. "You, too, Tony."
He feels so exquisitely strange then that he just has to lean forward and, while his hand is still lingering on her face, he presses a soft kiss to her sleepy mouth. And whispers, "You know what? I still mean it."
And she smiles, and her hand comes up, and she pats his cheek in a lovely, slightly uncoordinated way that reminds him a lot of the girl she was back when he first met her. "That is because we are still in Paris," she replies, and he laughs.
*** *** ***