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"No." He flips another page of the catalogue and stares at the images for exactly two excruciating seconds, then repeats the motion. "No." Two seconds, more pages flipped, brows drawing tight with growing frustration. "No, no, no." The last word sees the catalogue slammed shut and shoved into the trash bin like its predecessors, and Tony ends the motion by rubbing his face and grunting into his palms. He's well aware that the image he presents is precariously close to pathetic -- frustrated, hunched over in his seat, and far from satisfied. And yet, he adds with a sigh, "This is useless."
He feels McGee's curious glance rubbing up and down his spine, but for some reason he simply can't pull himself together enough to present an image of normalcy. Or whatever his friends perceive as normal about him. The team simply has too much spare time today, and too much time usually ends in too many thoughts on Tony's end, and that is rarely a good thing these days.
"What's wrong, Tony?"
Of course he can't gloss his mood over. It's only partly his own fault for being less than subtle. There's also the fact that the Probie's gotten really attentive over the years. And nosy. And it's his own damn fault for doing this here, at his desk, in the first place. He could have leisurely browsed some websites at home tonight. But no, his itchy gut just had to insist this couldn't wait another day.
"I need a new bed," he hears himself reply to his own horror before he can clamp his traitor mouth shut.
"What happened, you broke the old one?"
"... and these are just all kinds of wrong..."
He purposely ignores the somewhat lewd and suggestive tone in McGee's voice. At other times he would have been proud because that's exactly the way Tony taught him to react whenever the topic of bedsteads comes up in a conversation. This time, though, it rubs him the wrong way and it only serves to triple his irritation, with himself and with the whole subject and with his reasons for feeling out of tune and itchy.
"So what are you looking for?"
Tony sighs and opens his mouth once more to answer, but before coherent words can form he finds himself blinking, and he pauses to actually think about the question. It's almost aggravating not to know what to say.
Eventually he shakes his head and gets up to turn and browse aimlessly through the file cabinet since he's all out of furniture catalogues. "I don't know," he says and flips another page. "I kinda liked the old one." And that part at least is true. He'd slept like a baby in it, most nights. And he really hadn't been ready for a change yet.
"Okay..." Timmy stretches out the word slowly, curiously, and there's a puzzled note to his voice. "Why don't you get another one like it?"
He shudders before he can control the impulse, and McGee, clever boy that he is, sees it and frowns. "What's wrong with it?" he shoots and watches Tony squirm.
The question hangs between them like a puffy little cloud bearing the potential of thunder, and when Tony doesn't reply, McGee gets up and ends up glued to the older man's side, scrutinizing his face with a somewhat bemused and greatly curious expression, and he really can't get out of that one, can he?
"You don't want to know," is what he starts out to say. He's pretty sure about that. He's never been the kind of guy who divulges personal information like other people showing off their fancy phones. Except that his brain and his mouth aren't all that connected right now, and so the thing that actually stumbles past his lips is, "My father had sex in it."
The expression that flutters across McGee's face easily qualifies as horror with a pinch of disgust, and maybe that's the thing that keeps Tony from stopping there. Torturing McGee is just too ingrained in his nature, and so he is quick to add a surround feel to the movie in Timmy's head. "The skanky cougar from down the hall, can you believe that?"
"Mrs. J?" McGee's voice squeaks and almost breaks on the abbreviation, and suddenly there's a new shade of terror in his eyes. He only met the old girl once, when he picked up Tony for work because DiNozzo's car had broken down, but apparently that had been more than enough to leave a lasting impression. "Eww."
"Yeaah." Tony drawls the word and lets it trail out on a deceptively playful note. "So you see why I can't keep the old one. Or get one that reminds me of it."
"Couldn't you just wash the sheets?"
"Tried that. Lasted less than thirty seconds before it creeped me out too much."
McGee's eyes flit back and forth, instinctively following the casual wave of Tony's hand, and he's so distracted by the hypnotic movement that he jumps nervously when his partner suddenly turns to face him and grabs him by the lapels.
"Listen," Tony says while the crisp collar of Tim's shirt rumples between his fingers. The frown that suddenly mars his face lends an urgent quality to his words, and McGee is confused, like he always is when the joker runs off and hides unexpectedly. "If what I just told you ever leaves the confines of this particular square foot, I will strangle you with your mouse cord."
McGee blinks, gulps, meets Tony's weirdly serious eyes for a few endless seconds. He blinks again, and maybe it's because he's so oddly entranced by the precariousness of the situation that his tongue slips and he says, "It's a cordless model, Tony."
DiNozzo's frown deepens at the audacity of the reply; then he raises his chin and eyes McGee thoughtfully. "You don't believe I could strangle you with a cordless mouse?" he challenges, and McGee blinks once more and then thinks hard because there's an underlying growl to the question.
"I believe you would find a way," he replies slowly.
Satisfied, Tony nods and lets go of his partner, and McGee steps out of the demarcated square foot cautiously. "You know what, I think you need a shopping buddy," he states while he makes his way back to his desk, and this time it's Tony who falters mid-step, confused, staring.
"A what?"
"You know, someone who looks at stuff with you and weighs in on what to take and what to skip. Women do it all the time..." And then he pauses. Thinks about what he just said. Shakes his head, eventually. "Okay, it probably makes more sense with clothes."
"Yeaaah... I'm not going to let someone pick out my new bed who only uses half of its glorious potential," Tony snorts and thumbs through a file with no idea what he's looking for. It's a shameless lie by omission, but Probie doesn't need to know that Tony's own bed has only seen one visitor and two nights of activity other than sleeping during its twelve years of existence. Well, up until last week, that is.
"I wasn't offering." For a few seconds only the sound of McGee's rapid-fire typing fills the air, and for those few endlessly blissful seconds Tony thinks he got away. Then McGee's voice joins his busy fingers, and Tony freezes in his spot when his younger partner adds, "But you could ask Ziva. She's pretty good with these things."
It's a helpful proposition and almost innocent in nature. It still leaves Tony drenched in cold sweat because he's even less prepared for that kind of change.
"Oh no," he says and pretends to be engrossed in a case file he hasn't looked at for two years. "No no no, we will not ask the Ziva, because the Ziva wouldn't take this task seriously, and we would end up like Rock Hudson at the end of "Pillow Talk", when he hires Doris Day to be his interior designer to win her back, and she designs the shit out of his place but not in the good way?" His voice drifts off while his mind conjures up the scene that goes along with his words, and he shudders in too vivid remembrance of tassels and statues of ancient fertility gods.
"Ziva wouldn't do that."
"Oh yes, she would. In a heartbeat."
"Why? Did you ever Brad Allen her?"
"I have no idea what that means," a female voice cuts in, and they both jump because neither of them noticed Ziva sneaking up on them, "but I am pretty sure Tony has never been in a position to do it to me."
"Actually..." Tony says and tilts his head while he thinks fondly about a certain assignment and several interesting positions from at least two lifetimes ago. Then he rethinks his strategy, decides not to go there if he wants to live, and merely gives her a somewhat polite smile. "You're right."
Her eyes narrow because she smells the subterfuge, of course. "What were you talking about?"
McGee's mouth shows a dangerous tendency to open and provide an answer, and so Tony cuts him short and shoots a simple "Movies" at her, which is usually enough to leave her rolling her eyes and losing interest. McGee didn't get the memo, though, and so he spills a handful of traitorous words and ruins the ruse.
"Tony needs a shopping buddy because he can't decide on his own."
Ziva blinks, her bottom lip doing that weird twitchy thing she sometimes has when she's at a total loss for words. "So you thought of me?" Her tone conveys the whole alienness of that concept, and Tony couldn't have put it better himself. It's outlandish. It's... domestic. And Ziva and him and domestic, those things clearly don't mix.
"He did," he spurts out and points an accusing finger. "I knew you wouldn't do it."
And that's it, he thinks. The one thing he shouldn't have said, because it's also the one thing that ensures her interest is tickled now and she's already busy sinking her teeth into the challenge before he has even finished the sentence.
*** *** ***
"So," she lilts, and he has no idea how she manages to give a simple two-letter word so many nuances at once. "What are we shopping for?" There's something suggestive in her voice, and Tony cringes involuntarily because he actually forgot this morning's exchange for a while, but she, of course, didn't.
"We aren't shopping for anything, and I am about to go home and fall asleep on my couch while watching a trashy action movie, for which I will need no help from you, thank you very much."
"Huh." That's all she says, and he grinds his teeth and refuses to look at her. It's a feeble attempt, and he knows it's doomed when he watches her reflection in the shiny elevator wall. The way she crosses her arms and turns towards him is telltale enough, but then she starts chewing her lower lip and tilts her head the way she always does when she's about to deliver the death blow in an argument. "No, I don't think so. The couch is bad for your back."
There is that, of course.
*** *** ***
She still hasn't set a foot into his apartment, and for a short while he thinks that may be enough to keep her from going through with this because she has no idea what style he likes and what would even fit with the rest of his stuff... and, truthfully, he's pretty sure she expects him to like things a lot more tacky than he actually does, and so he braces himself for recommendations of metal-framed beds that would be perfect for using handcuffs for play or waterbeds that would put Fox Mulder to shame.
Except that never happens. She's simply too good at watching him. She's proven that often enough, but this time she really excels in that department, and so she soaks up the most miniscule of his reactions and forms a pattern in her head based on them. It doesn't take long until she knows exactly what he likes and what he doesn't, and that confuses him. Scares him, even, because she's getting too deep into his head in too short an amount of time, and that's never a safe thing. Especially not while they're still playing the domestic game and she's suggesting beds for him to spend his nights in. It feels... inappropriate. And that's a pretty funny thought, considering there aren't many things Tony DiNozzo would classify as inappropriate. (At least not the official version of him.)
And yet, there is this part of him that can't cut this short, can't rebuff her efforts. He won't go as far as saying that part of him actually likes bed-shopping with Ziva. But at least that part doesn't mind the implications all that much. And McGee was certainly right about one thing: she does have good taste in furniture.
It scares him how easily they fall into their usual rhythm for this, too. How she suggests something and he grimaces, or he points at something else and this time it's her nose that crinkles in fake disgust. It's... dangerous because it's familiar, and he has to remind himself that he doesn't want to do this. And, more importantly, that he's not here to pick out something for them. Subterfuge, deflection, and bad jokes work for a while and help to keep his heart and Ziva at arm's length. He feels her growing frustration with his antics, though, and he thinks it can't be that long now until she gives up and leaves him to his own devices.
But just when he thinks he might get out of this after all, he sees her face soften, and before he can ask what's up, she says "Oh" and wanders off into a corner. He wants to roll his eyes and mock her for her girlish shopping fever, but somehow he never gets around to it because his eyes drift to the bed she just discovered. White-washed wood, simple, yet elegant. Queen-sized. Sturdy. As down to earth as furniture can get. It's the most irrational thing he has felt all day, but for the span of a heartbeat he hates her because she just found something he didn't even know he was looking for.
And she's not content with merely pointing it out and then accepting his refusal. No, she walks up to it and runs her hands over the showroom sheets, and then she even sits down. She's perched on the edge of the mattress gingerly as if there's a pea underneath, and for a heartbeat he feels the insane and quite unexpected urge to shoo her away and mark his territory.
"I like this one," she says with the same soft note to her voice, and when she looks up and her eyes meet his, he has to fight a bad flutter in his heart for a moment.
This is ridiculous, he thinks. And it's not the right order of things. You don't pick out furniture together before you fall for someone. He looks away and tries to convince himself that he has never felt that particular flutter before, but his traitor heart sneers at the notion and his brain isn't there to object.
"Tony," she pleads softly, and a muscle in his cheek twitches. "Don't you want to try out at least one of them?"
And that is, more or less, the moment where Tony DiNozzo realizes that, boyfriend or not, he may indeed be truly whipped when it comes to this woman. Because he can't refuse her anything, it seems. Not when she's using that tone on him.
He makes a show out of taking off his coat, and she makes a show out of not watching him, and it's all just too weird for words, but he still takes the other side of the bed and sits down. He bounces a few times and intends to get up again right after she's satisfied. Except things never quite work out the way he plans them, and it's not just her gaze weighing him down all of a sudden.
The mattress feels damn good.
It feels even better when he stretches out, and he bites back a groan when his vertebrae crack and the tension in his back lessens with every breath. It's a quite unexpected rush of bliss, and it feels so right that he actually closes his eyes and drinks in the feel of the bed. Very different from the couch that wasn't made to spend a whole night on it, much less subsequent ones. God, what he wouldn't give to just go to sleep right here, right now...
Ziva moves, and something close to panic rushes through him when she stretches out, too, on her side, and faces him. He can feel the weight of her gaze on him, and part of him waits for her to say something. But she doesn't talk; she merely does that thing again where she watches him, quietly, curiously, and he's confused enough by now that he ends up just staring at the ceiling for a while, not sure what to do.
It's weirdly peaceful, and it takes too little time until he's on the verge of nodding off beside her.
"So?" she asks, and Tony blinks and turns his head to look at her. His body follows soon, and before he can really comprehend what's happening he's on his side and in bed and sharing a pillow with his partner.
"It's not bad," he admits, and he's not exactly sure if the bed is all he means.
There's something strangely rewarding in Ziva's smile. He's rarely seen her this soft and relaxed, and it confuses him, again. For a heartbeat, all of this feels simply... right. Like this is how it's supposed to be. And while the corner of her mouth twitches as she tries not to smile at him, he's suddenly tempted to reach out and brush that stubborn strand of hair out of her face and tuck it behind her ear. But touching her probably isn't a good idea. Not while he's in bed with her and she looks at him like she doesn't mind.
"Should we look for a sales person?"
And just like that, the nervous flutter in his tummy is back full force, and he realizes that this was a mistake. He got careless, and he almost slipped up just because Ziva smiled at him and he had a few happy thoughts. He really isn't ready for this. Any of this.
"No need," he forces out and gets up in a rush. "I'm not gonna take it."
He's too aware of the confusion in her eyes as she sits up, too, but before he can storm off, she gets up and in his path and cuts off his hasty exit with a frown drawing her brows together.
"Why?"
He breathes in and out, carefully, slowly, and when he finally answers her, his voice is almost controlled. "Well, it's not really my style, sweetheart."
"Liar." She throws the sarcasm right back at him, and her frown deepens while she scrutinizes his face. "You like it, so why?"
There's a sharp note to her voice now, and he shuts down even harder at the question. He doesn't want to, and he hates that it's happening, but he can't help it. It's a reflex whenever people hit too close to home. And for some reason Ziva has a real talent for that.
She sees that, too, and once again it scares him shitless how easily she's able to read him. Because now she really gets into his face, and her eyes turn all serious and no-nonsense. "Just this once," she says, her voice low and urgent, "I am going to hold you to the same standards you put on me lately and ask you to tell me the truth, Tony. This is one of those things that matter, it seems, so tell me: what is wrong with the bed?"
She's too close, and he's too confused, and it really doesn't help that he can smell her shampoo. The unruly strand of hair still falls into her face, and for some reason his perception zooms in on that and gets stuck there. It's easier than meeting her eyes.
"It's too big." He sees only part of her reaction because he still stares at her temple -- the confused little blink, the sudden tilt to her head. Her pretty mouth is pursed thoughtfully, and he knows that's just the prelude to more questions. He hates it when she does that. He never has a chance to get out of it unscathed.
"Look," he says, and she does just that, raises her chin and holds his gaze until he's all distracted and the words flow easier than he expected them to. Too easy, really. Maybe that's just because she's almost close enough to kiss him now. Or maybe because she still looks like she wouldn't mind. "It's a really nice bed, but I'd just lay there and stare at the other side and..."
And he knows it was a mistake to say that when her eyes widen because he just gave her a much deeper glimpse than she had bargained for. That one admission mattered a whole lot, and he takes in a deep breath and tries to step back, step around her and flee the scene, because if there's one thing he cannot take, it's her pity.
He doesn't get very far because before he's even done exhaling, her hand is on his chest and freezes him in place. His heart pounds against her palm, and she lowers her eyes and stares at his chest. Blinks. "I think," she says after what feels like a lifetime, and her voice is small and almost hesitant. He doesn't get where the rawness is coming from. It's not her heart he ripped open here, after all. "I think you are closing doors before you even started looking for a key."
His face feels blank, but he knows it isn't when she raises her eyes again and meets his gaze and then reacts to what she sees. She probably thinks as well that her own face is as composed as ever, but there's too much emotion swirling in the lovely brown depths of her eyes all of a sudden, and he's confused, again. Because he doesn't know what to do with her words, and because she still touches him, and she really is too close now. He can't think straight when she does that... that thing. With the touching and all.
He sways when she steps away from him with a little nod, and he's not sure why, since her touch didn't carry his weight. There's a strange undercurrent of disappointment in her expression when she walks past him, and that's when he realizes she'll leave the store after all. Leave him.
Yeah, he gets it. He can taste his own regret just as strongly.
*** *** ***
*** *** ***
"The one we tried out."
And yeah, that slip in her expression is pretty much priceless.
"Why?" Her tone is incredulous, and he feels the corners of his mouth twitch with sudden amusement. She's really cute when she's confused.
"Because you were right, and because I did like it," he shrugs. "And because you liked it, too."
She's quiet for a few seconds and makes a point out of staring straight at her screen and not him, but after a while she can't help it, and her curiosity overpowers her reserve. "How is that relevant?" she asks, and she tries her best, but he still sees the tiny glance she sneaks at him beneath lowered lids.
"It's not," he admits, and she blinks. He can hear her think and juggle different interpretations here, and he's not entirely sure why he doesn't leave it at that. Maybe because he doesn't want to keep her guessing about the things that matter anymore. "But maybe it will be, someday."
He's glad that he's close enough to smell the soap she used this morning. That way he gets to see the tiniest blush that spreads across her cheeks when his words sink in, and that's a good thing, because this reaction seems pretty relevant to him.
*** *** ***