Tony lets out a long sigh as he collapses heavily onto the couch. It turns out that completely uprooting your life to move from the apartment you've lived in for a decade and a half all the way across the ocean into a nation whose language you don't speak is exhausting, let alone doing it all with a toddler you've just met. Furthermore, while he has, of course, been thinking about his eventual retirement from NCIS, and has put aside a little bit of cash over the years, he never imagined he'd be settling down this soon, and without the NCIS pension he didn't quite put in enough years of service to earn. He's run the numbers, and while he's still not crystal clear on the exchange rate between dollars and euros, he can say with some certainty that he needs a job, and he needs a job soon.

So, as any monolingual, expat single father would do, he's spent the past few days combing the city of Paris, Tali-filled stroller in tow, in desperate search of anyone interested in hiring a retired American cop, as he has learned is the easiest way to introduce himself to potential employers. Trying to explain NCIS was difficult enough in Washington, where most people had the same native tongue and were somewhat familiar with the US Navy; here, apparently, it's just better not to try.

None of this is going like I planned, he laments. When he stood in Gibbs' basement and told him that he was going to take Tali to Paris, he realizes now that he romanticized what it would be like here. He's unemployed but still paying rent on his DC apartment - just in case things (perish the thought!) suddenly go the way of the last time he was in France - so he and his daughter are squeezed into a one-bedroom apartment in one of the seedier outskirts of Paris, with Tali sleeping in the small bedroom and Tony, because apparently he cannot sleep for worrying if he's in the same room with her, crashing on the living room couch in a very Gibbsean manner, indeed. (And seriously - there's not a single thing about this situation that he ever, even just six months ago, would've expected in his life.)

When he decided to come to Europe, he supposes he pictured gallivanting across the city, at least as much as one can gallivant with a three-year old, a stroller, and a diaper bag, learning and investigating and searching for anyone who might know anything about Ziva or her whereabouts. Instead, he and Tali are trudging rather grumpily through smelly, overcrowded streets while Tony continues his yet-fruitless search for gainful employment. He's been so busy trying to hold it all together, trying to make sure that the rent gets paid and the apartment is somewhat clean and he buys Tali the right kind of food, since there are no supermarkets here, and, oh yeah, everything is in French, that he's had almost no time to dedicate to finding Ziva, which he estimates infuriates him, breaks his heart, and gives him a headache in about equal portions.

He's rolled off the couch, the need to do something to tackle his headache outweighing the need to sit still and not move for about thirty years, and is headed to the kitchen to take what he thinks is a pain pill (but again, he can't really be sure, because everything is in French!) when there is a knock on the front door that stops him dead in his tracks. It's not that there's anything about this particular knock that gives him pause, but rather the principle of the knocking; he didn't know a soul in the city when he deboarded the plane, and the only people he's talked to since are his landlord, whom he feels fairly confident would not be coming to call after midnight like this, and the people he's practically begged for jobs, who certainly don't know where he lives and who, even if they did have his address, are similarly unlikely to be at the door at this hour.

Tony's hand goes instinctively to his waist, searching for a holster which, between his recent retirement and the stringency of French gun control laws, is not there. He curses quietly, tries to tell himself that it's probably a neighbor needing to borrow a cup of sugar or something (is that still a thing? Was that ever a thing in France? Doesn't really matter; he doesn't have any sugar.) and creeps as quietly as he can towards the door.

What was intended as a quick precursory glance through the peephole to size up his mystery visitor (How physically intimidating are they? Could I take them in hand-to-hand?) very quickly has him weak at the knees as he stares, mouth gaping open, through the fisheye. Though perhaps not particularly physically intimidating to the casual observer, he happens to know that he absolutely could not take his guest in hand-to-hand, but when he regains some semblance of normal brain function after his initial shock, he fumbles eagerly with the lock, feeling fairly certain that this particular visit will not end in any sort of fisticuffs.

He can't seem to form any words as he flings the door wide open and stares. Given the whole of the situation, despite his complete and utter shock at this turn of events, he is certain he's the luckiest guy in this building tonight, if not the luckiest guy in all of Europe. Here he was, moping around on his sofa, taking mysterious French pills and feeling sorry for himself, and the very object of his distress shows up on his metaphorical doorstep. (The thought gets him derailed for a long second, imagining the three of them moving into a house in some neat an anonymous suburb with a yard he loves to complain about mowing and a cute little welcome mat on an actual doorstep. He puts a pin in that thought; he needs to be 100% focused on what's happening here and now, but it's definitely a mental image to which he intends to return.)

Ziva smiles warmly, and it suddenly occurs to him that his mouth is probably still hanging open like a dumb fish. He checks in as subtly as he can with his facial muscles, and yep, it sure is. Real nice, Tony. He picks his jaw up off the floor and tries to manipulate his face into some kind of welcoming look, something that says 'It's nice to see you,' or 'I'm really glad you're not dead,' instead of just 'oh-my-god-oh-my-god-oh-my-god.' Though he's unsure how successful he is at this task, she doesn't turn and run, which he counts as a good sign.

Instead, she just keeps smiling, and finally says, "Well? Are you going to invite me in?"

A/N: I realized that with all the writing I've been doing about what might happen when Ziva returns, I was curious about what it must've been like when she and Tony first reunited! This quick little story will likely be about three chapters.