WHY WE FIGHT
By
Ashleigh Anpilova
Tony and Ziva fight for a reason.
An established relationship story.
Written: November 2009. Word count: 1,000.
"Tony, do we have to have another movie night?" Ziva put her hand on Tony's arm.
He shook it off. "Why not?"
"Because there are other things we could do."
"What like read a book? Or maybe I can listen to you mangle the American language." He snarled at her.
Against her will she took a step back. "Tony?"
"What?" Again he snarled.
"What is the matter?"
"What makes you think anything's the matter?" He turned away from her and strode across the room.
She watched him, uncertain what to do next; what to say. "Because you are . . ." She trailed off; he was what? She tried again. "Is it Gibbs? Has he -"
He whirled around. "Why should it be Gibbs? Why mention him?"
She avoided telling him that almost everything in his life revolved around Gibbs. She shook her head. "I do not know." She lied. "I just thought that maybe . . . He does not like us being together. He -"
"Together? Is that what we are, Ziva? Together? A couple? You and me? Well, is it?" His tone was nasty now, dark; yet hidden beneath it she heard a tinge of pain.
However, she had had enough. If he wished to behave like a child, then let him. Not for the first time she doubted her decision to share his apartment. "Very well," she said. "I am going for a walk. Maybe when I return you will -"
"I'll be what? What, Ziva? What do you want me to be? Who do you want me to be?" His voice rose.
Finally, goaded beyond endurance, she shouted back at him. "What is that meant to mean?"
Suddenly he pushed past her, knocking her against the wall, she staggered slightly, but kept her balance. Before she had time to react, to think, he returned and threw a photo at her. It was creased, half torn. It fluttered to the ground.
"Pick it up," he snarled.
His face was white, sweat stood on his brow and upper lip, his pupils were contracted and he was breathing quickly; his entire body was tense and he clenched and unclenched one fist. Ziva knew how to fight; her entire life had been about being trained to fight, to protect, to kill. But she was more than that. That part of her, the part of her that only knew a violent way to deal with things, had died in Africa.
Thus, rather than lash out, she bent and picked the photo up. She could not prevent a gasp escaping from her. She looked at Tony. "Tony -"
"At least you remember my name."
She stood up. "Tony. Do not do this."
"Why, Ziva? Why? Do you still compare me to him? Do you still blame me for -"
"I have never compared you to Michael, Tony. Never. What he gave me was not real. Could not be real."
"Yet you keep his photo." His voice was still raised.
She shook her head. "I did not - Where did you find it? Have you been going through my belongings?" Her anger increased.
"No! I just thought I'd do something for you. "I was putting your books onto a shelf and dropped one. This fell out of it. Is that who you think about? When you and I fu-" She slapped him around the face and raised her hand to hit him a second time.
He caught it and twisted it behind her; spinning her around, he put his lips to her ear. "I'll always be second best, won't I, Ziva? Always be the man who killed Michael Rivkin."
She fought his grip; but he held her tightly. "I do not blame you," she said, resisting the urge to jab an elbow into his stomach. "I do not think I ever did."
"Don't lie to me!" He spat the words into her ear. "You blamed me. You threw me
to the ground. You -"
"Like this?" She snapped, spun in his grip, ignoring the pain in her arm, put one leg between his, twisted and dropped him. The next second she followed him down straddling him, her hands on his shoulders, pressing down. Her ass pressing down onto his groin.
Both of them were now breathing quickly. As she moved, she felt the beginnings of his arousal beneath her. She could smell clean sweat, cologne and his personal pheromones; as always they began to affect her. Her nipples hardened and she felt herself begin to become damp.
With a half growl she brought her mouth down and crushed his lips with her own. She tasted blood. She did not know, she did not care, if it was his blood or hers, but it fired her on.
Still kissing him, feeling his hands tangled in her hair, she reached between them, hands moving until she'd unzipped him; he was completely hard and wet. Thanking whatever it had been that had made her put on a skirt, she yanked her panties until she felt them tear. Then in one swift movement she rose up a little grabbed him, positioned him and sank down onto him.
Tears, that came from where she knew not, now streamed down her face as she sat up, wincing as several strands of her hair came out in his hands, and began to move.
It was over in minutes. His climax triggered hers, and now sobbing she collapsed on top of him.
"Oh, Ziva, I'm sorry. I'm so sorry," she heard him say. His voice sounded harsh as though he too was crying and he held her, his embrace gentle.
"So am I," she murmured and found his mouth. This time the kiss was sweet, gentle, tender, full of the love they had for one another, but never spoke of. "So, Tony, am I."
Later as he gathered her into his arms and began to gently caress and kiss her she knew this fight would not, could not, be their last. But at least they had a reason to fight; a very good reason.
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