note: I can hardly believe I'm posting this big ole' thing. I've been stuck with it for years, it feels like. Where most fics I write, spend a few days editing, then post, I've been working on this for four months. It's kinda been horrible. But, I hope it's good to go now.
Why I seem to love sending these two all round the world, and splitting fics up into several little sections, I really have no idea. It just seems to happen that way. Anyway, this is set sort of in the summer between Season 10 and 11, but ignoring the circumstances of that? I mean I mention Eli, and I mention it being July, but the specifics of the setting really aren't that important, I don't think, so we'll just say it's from around then for easiness' sake. Also, there's one use of language here, so.
Thanks go to a whole host of people who have read this since I started it, but especially to Allison for putting up with me regarding this over the past few days.
Ramble over. I hope you all enjoy this, and if you wanna review, please do!

disclaimer: july 10th inches closer...

Risk

The first thing he takes in when he wakes up is that his head hurts. His temples are pounding and his limbs feel heavy and god he wants that incessant knocking to stop.
It's when the blurry red haze of his alarm clock comes into focus that he realizes someone really is knocking.

A 4am house call can't be good, he knows, so he stumbles to his feet and runs a hand through his hair as he pads heavily to the door, pulling it open right away after checking the person on the other side.

"Ziva?"

Before he can say another word she's clutching at him, lips pressing against his messily as she pins him to the side wall by his door. The kiss is rough and hurried and he thinks it'll leave his lips bruised. He doesn't know why this is happening or why she's chosen now but he doesn't dare stop her, merely wraps his arms round her waist and relishes in the heat of her breath on his skin.
When she pulls back, he's sure he can see tears in her eyes.

"I... I have to leave."

He doesn't focus on the fact that his heart just seemed to plummet down to his feet.
"What?"

"I can't explain it, Tony, but I have to run. I came to say goodbye."

She tries to move away but his hands can't let go of her hips.
"Ziva, we can talk about this, we can sort this out—"

Her finger presses against his lips and silences him.
"There isn't time, Tony, I have to go now."

And just like that, the warmth of her seeping onto his palms and her forefinger oh so soft against the rough of his mouth, with his heart racing in his chest, he knows what to do.

"I'm coming with you."

She puts up surprisingly little fight, just objects once then lets him pack a bag in the five minutes she says she can spare. He's unsure where they'll end up, so throws in a little of everything and adds half of his bathroom cabinet and a toothbrush for good measure. When he slips on some clothes and shoes, they're gone.
He doesn't ask any questions until they're speeding down the highway to Dulles.

"So what's the plan?"

She sighs, running a hand through her hair.
"I am... not sure. We could catch the first plane out?"

"Unless it leads us right to whatever we're running from." he murmurs, mildly annoyed that she cannot even say who they're abandoning all they knew for.

If she senses his frustration, she doesn't mention it.

"So, London? Mexico?"

"Paris?"
He can hear the smile in her voice without even looking at her.

"I like Paris."

When they land, the July sun is a stark contrast to the cool January weather they'd encountered the last time they visited the city. They ride in a stuffy cab from the airport to a cheap hotel that needs no reservations or knowledge of how long they intend to stay there. The view out the window is a brick wall and there's a broken ceiling fan that rattles as it spins, and the sounds of passing cars and infrequent sirens fill their ears. For the first few days of lying low, it'll be perfect.

Though he's reluctant to split up, she soon points out they have no food and few resources, so he ventures out in the midday heat and tries to pretend he can't still taste her on his lips. They haven't discussed her goodbye for him yet, and as he picks up a baguette in a corner-store, he doubts they will, at least for a while.

She's dozing on the bed when he returns, and he doesn't blame her; the time difference is catching up to him too. He sits on the couch, gnawing on a croissant, and waits for her to wake up.

"Hey." she says, sometime later, and he looks up from his newspaper to send her a quick smile.

"I got lunch."

She sits beside him and picks up a chunk of bread.
"So I see. What are you reading?"

He shifts, a little uncomfortable to admit his prior investigations.
"Not much."

"You are a terrible liar."

"I know," he leans forward, newspaper cast aside and his eyes focused on the wall in front of them. "I, uh, figured… This place is fine for now, but if we find ourselves… staying here a while, we should probably look at somewhere else."

"You were looking at apartments?"
Her voice is quiet, and a little stunned.

He smiles awkwardly in acknowledgement.

"Tony, we are still very easy to trace here, we should not stay long. A few weeks at most."

His cheeks flush, and she must see it. Shuffling towards him, she places her hand on his knee, and when he turns to look at her he's not quite sure what emotion is heavy in her eyes.
"You dropped everything to come here with me when I did not ask you to, I know that. And I am… so grateful for you, Tony. I promise, wherever we end up next, we don't have to stay in a place like this. We can rent whatever apartment you choose."

Her constant use of we makes his heart thump painfully, and her lips are so close he just wants to lean in and steal her breath there and then.
But he doesn't. He smiles, flicks a bit of pastry at her, and returns to reading news he can't quite understand.

When they sleep that night, though, he drifts toward her in the early hours and wraps her up in his arms, and she doesn't object one bit.

Their days in Paris were quiet, covert ones, spent in sidestreets and quiet corners and that rather pathetic hotel room.
Their days in Spain are nothing like those days.

Though it's slightly risky to be so close to their prior location, they find a town a half hour from Madrid. It's a place Ziva knows fairly well and a language Tony can speak, and so they settle.

The apartment they find is three floors up, with a big wide window that catches the sun most days. They take long, aimless walks and venture to the city every now and then, eating paella because he says they have to. Time passes and they work on their tans and Ziva's hair turns lighter and lighter in the sun. He even wakes up some mornings forgetting that they're desperately running from everything they'd ever known.
Until she sits him down on the couch one evening and dances her fingertips over his palm.

"You like it here, don't you?"

"Well… yeah."

"We have been here a long time now. Almost two months."
Her voice trails off a little at the end, as if questioning him, and he laces his fingers through hers, shrugging.

"I think I get where you're going with this. We can move, Ziva, it's fine."

"But-"

"It's okay." he says, his voice rising slightly in annoyance.

She sighs, her hand squeezing his as she pauses, clearly choosing her words carefully.
"Tony, I can't ask you to keep moving only because I have to. It's not fair."

He pulls away from her in frustration, anger flaring in his chest.
"What, you want me to… stay here? Let you do this by yourself? Ziva, you don't get it. I'm here because I want to be. Because I'd much rather be here, with you, running, than stuck in DC wondering where the hell you are and what you're doing and if you're safe-"

"But you can go home, to the team, you don't have to be here."

"If you don't want me here, then say, but I am not leaving you, Ziva. I'm not."
He stands, pushing past her and rushing to the room designated his, and closes the door.

It's nearing midnight when he swings his door open, only to find her standing in the doorway to her room, opposite.
He's not quite sure how it happens, but suddenly they're running to each other and their lips smash together and her tongue runs along his as she shudders in his arms. They stumble back to his room and he tears her shirt in his desperation to rid her of it. He breathes I love yous against her skin and she gasps in return, and when they sleep that night they're a tangled mess of sheets and warmth and pounding hearts.

He wakes her with a kiss the next morning, and tells her he doesn't care where they go next.

Seven months, three moves, and one potentially risky trip to California later, she races to the bathroom in the morning. He can hear her retches from their bed and stumbles after her, not even needing to ask what may be wrong.

She stops, groaning and wiping a hand over her mouth, and he fills a nearby glass with water.

"Y'know, for two people on the run, we didn't really think this through, did we?"

She starts to laugh but abruptly stops, heaving and spluttering painfully once more. He can only hold her hair and wince as she slumps against the toilet bowl, breaths heavy.

"What are we gonna do?" he asks, his voice quieter than intended.

She takes a sip of water, turning to face him.
"We will see where this leads, I suppose."

"Ziva, this could be—"

"I know, Tony, I know. It's dangerous and stupid and we should not have even let this happen, but we did, and I don't know what to do about it."
She's slightly breathless as she finishes and he takes her in his arms without thought.

"Like you said. We'll see where this leads." he says, voice a trembling whisper into her hair.

She holds him tight and cries onto his shoulder as he begs and prays that they'll be okay.

Two weeks later, she bursts into their room, bags of groceries falling to her feet as she stumbles toward him. Her eyes are wide and wild, and it scares him.

"We need to leave. Now, we have to go."

"Ziva, what's going on?" he asks, as he eyes her gathering their things and throwing them into a bag.

She shakes her head, hurrying round still.
"I think I… I think I saw someone, at the market."

"Shit."

"Exactly. Now help."

The fear he'd pushed aside- for Ziva, and the baby, and a little for himself, too- returns in startling full force, and he scoops up shirts and books and all they own just so he doesn't lose everything.

He doesn't think he breathes again until they're holed up in Canada, and he can actually see every breath in the cold, a frosted reassurance.

"Ziva?" he asks one night, when his arms are wrapped round her lazily, palm resting against the tiny swell of her stomach.

She shifts a little before sighing, deeply.
"Yes?"

"Are you ever gonna tell me what we're running from?"

She tenses immediately, and he knows he should've left this conversation for another day. But the question's been plaguing him ever since they left D.C., and now, with his heart in her hands and another very real issue beneath his, he has to know. He has to know what to keep her safe from.

"Tony, I have told y—"

"I know you have. But Ziva, please. Tell me."

She shifts out of his arms, sitting up as she brushes her hair from her eyes rather roughly, and clears her throat.
"I cannot tell you everything. I do not know everything. But I have made some enemies, Tony, in my past, enemies that I hoped would never come to find me again, and especially not come to hurt those I love," Her hand rests over her stomach, briefly. "I made some mistakes. And just as I was starting to… adjust, to everything again, after what happened with my father, I received a message from a friend. A warning, actually. Someone was coming for me again."

He slips his fingers through hers, squeezing her hand tight.
"But you still came to me? You let me go with you."

She nods, sending him a suddenly tearful smile.
"I couldn't leave without saying goodbye. I… could not."

"Thank you." he says. For telling him, for loving him, for coming to him in the middle of the night because she couldn't let him go. For giving him all he ever wanted in the world.

Leaning in, she kisses him gently, hands framing his face while he lets his drift down to her stomach once more.

"I love you." she murmurs, lips still brushing his.

He grins, kissing her once more before he replies, "I love you too."

It ends very suddenly.

She's about five months, and suitably glowing, when she gets a call. It's on the phone that's been in the bottom of her suitcase since Spain, and that he's never seen her use once. She answers immediately, sitting on the bed and speaking in hushed Hebrew he can't make out despite her teaching him over the past few months. The conversation is short, but relief washes over her features before she hangs up.

"We are safe. We are all safe."

He turns to her, eyebrow raised, and she smiles dazedly at him.
"What?"

"That was my contact. The… the person after me is dead, there is no threat anymore." Realization dawns on her features and she reaches for his hand, squeezing it as she grins at him. "We can stop running."

They find a nice house in Georgetown, and he calls his father and she calls Gibbs. Apologies are made and they put down some roots and find jobs. They have lunches with the team every so often, catching up on all they missed which was, apparently, a lot.

Adjusting to normal life again, however, is harder than either of them anticipated. He just can't stop the hairs on the back of his neck rising every time a door opens, or the constant feeling that everything is temporary, about to end any moment. His heart races like he's ready for a fight.

"I want it to slow down, Ziva." he murmurs one very early morning as he holds her. Moonlight streams in through the window and casts shadows across her face, and he wishes this moment alone could stop time and let him catch his breath.

But she can only kiss his head and bring his hand to her stomach, and the only thing that anchors them to permanence nowadays.

It's when she's born that everything seems to fit once more, and only then.
She's handed to them, their little girl all wrapped up in a blanket as she wails, and he couldn't take his eyes off her if he tried.

Every time he holds her, and he can feel her soft soft breaths against his neck, as her tiny little fists raise in a dream; every time she cries in the night and gurgles out little words, and grasps his finger with her whole hand, he finds his heart no longer races madly. His hair no longer stands on end at every sudden movement.

And just like that, they've stopped running.