Written because I ran out NCIS episodes to watch until next week…and because I've read most of the Tiva postings and crave more…I was inspired by Susan Boyle's version of "Enjoy the Silence." I find it oddly hot.

Update: because I hate my typos.

Disclaimer: Not mine. Damn.

Enjoy the Silence

Words are unnecessary. He opens the passenger door of his Mustang for her, and she slides in, automatically reaching for the seatbelt. She fumbles a bit as she fights with the buckle. He silently reaches across her and does it for her, fingers brushing softly across a hand that shakes a bit as it moves to rest in her lap. He moves to his own door…

Words are very unnecessary. She knows that words can hurt as much as they can heal. He knows words can weave lies that even the liar eventually believes because the lie is so much better than the reality. She knows that words made to sound pretty can mask unspeakable evil. He knows that words spoken carelessly can begin to rebuild the wall around her heart that they have all worked to tear down, brick by brick. And so they enjoy the silence…

Except it is not silent. Their breaths are shallow and ragged as their mouths find each other again. She gasps a little as his hands circle behind her and run up her back to the edge of her bra. He moans a little when her now deft fingers pull his shirt from his pants and run low along his belly, reaching for his belt. They both gasp as he lifts her, her legs going around his waist, and pushes her against his still open apartment door. It slams shut and she hears him grunt as he shifts her weight to one arm while slamming home the locks. They do not say anything but hungrily taste each other, mouths bruising each other, tongues caressing each other, as he carries her to his bed. They do not need to say anything. Words are unnecessary.

Perhaps they have always been unnecessary. They can communicate with a mere glance, taking down criminals in a flawlessly orchestrated symphony of force and cunning. They know when the other hurts and needs comfort, they know when the other needs space. All without a word. Indeed words often get them into trouble, do harm. A simple touch, a knowing glance…perhaps that is all they need.

But no, that is of course not accurate. There have been words that needed to be said. He has had to tell her so many things she did not want to hear…about Michael, about why he, Tony, lived still and Michael lay dead. About the fact that he essentially did it for her, knowing it would likely break them. And then that summer of torture, going from merely believing she would die to praying to God to die and believing that death would never actually come to free her from the living hell of Saleem. Saleem, with his sickeningly sweet breath and hard, dead eyes. Saleem whose hands would mock her with gentleness before they would hit her, before they would do worse…she, Ziva, had to tell Tony she forgave him, that he had been right, that he had always had her back. Maybe he would know that just by being near her, by knowing her. But those words had needed to be said…

But not now…

Words do not need to be said as he lowers her to his bed. Words are not needed as he slips her blouse over her head, not bothering to undo all the buttons. Before she can lower her arms again, he has her bra unclasped, freeing her small perfect breasts. His thumb rakes across one erect nipple as his mouth finds the other, taking it in and teasing it with his tongue and his teeth. She arches against him, and his mouth travels down, licking, teasing, and kissing his way down her perfect little body. Smiling when her breath catches in ecstasy, frowning when he passes over a scar left over from a life he is so grateful she left behind.

He kisses each wound, then moves on until he reaches the sensitive skin of her belly. Her fingers weave into his hair and she tries to pull him back up to her. He stands suddenly, and she cries out in protest. But it is only for a moment as he unbuttons her pants and pulls them down. He does not hide his delight as he finds she is not wearing any panties. He is not sure when she lost her shoes, but they are certainly not still on her feet as her pants slide off her legs.

She sits up to return the favor, fingers still trembling and once again oddly clumsy for her as she works on the belt buckle she started on before and then the zipper, freeing his hardened manhood. He is not wearing any underwear either…She looks up at him with a smirk. He looks down at her, his mouth quirking up on one side, a shrug that says, "no clean laundry…" But of course he does not have to say it.

He can't say it…ever his bold ninja, she has taken him into her mouth. It is nearly enough to make him come right there, but he is Tony DiNozzo, and that would not do. He shudders and enjoys the way he feels in her hot, wet mouth. When she pauses to breathe, he takes the opportunity to once again lower her to the bed, pressing her into the mattress. One of his legs goes between hers, rising until it meets with fiery wetness. One hand moves to entwine itself in her hair, hair that by day was straight and controlled, hair that now is wantonly splayed across his pillow, looking like it wants to relax into its natural curl. That's the way he likes it, wild and free and alive the way his Ninja, his Ziva, was always meant to be. She gasps when he pulls her hair a little too much, or maybe she gasps because his other hand has found its way to the silky wetness that is her. One finger, then two enter her. She arches and bucks against him as he curls and thrusts and teases inside her, his thumb brushing over her clitoris. He is so hard and she is so wet and suddenly it is not enough to touch her like this.

He needs to be completely inside her. He pulls his fingers from her and brings them to his mouth, unable to resist a taste of her. His green eyes meet her hot, dark ones and she nods, her beautiful mouth curving into a soft smile. Her chest is heaving with their exertions and the sight of her breasts with their hard nipples rising and falling is nearly enough to undo him again. But he takes her nod as the permission that it is and enters her fully. Her little cries of pleasure drive him and he presses into her, thrusting in and out with six years of built up passion that needs to be released. He is so close and she is too but it is too soon for all of this to end. He does not want this to end, and he can tell by the way her nails claw into his back that she does not want it to either. Her back lifts off the bed, pressing into him as if she wants to be inside him as he is inside her.

Visions of their life together thus far run through his mind…how he first saw her, arrogant and flirtations and "slouching provocatively." How she looked softer than the assassin that she was pretending to be, softer than the assassin she actually was the night they were undercover and how he knew he was lost the moment her negligee hit the floor around her feet and she let him lift her to another bed, fake kissing her way irrevocably into his heart. Even then, they did not need to speak. Words then were merely a distraction, to keep them focused on the job at hand.

And now no distractions are needed. Words that led them here tonight are forgotten as they come together, always and ever in sync. He collapses on top of her, heart pounding in his throat. His lips find hers. The kiss is gentle this time, and he smiles into it. She smiles back, stroking his hair tenderly and pulling him back down to her. He rolls so that she can lie across him. Her hair falls across his chest and he wonders briefly if he is actually in the middle of one of the more fantastic dreams he has had of her. The one where she lays above him just like this. Hair tussled, lips swollen, breasts pressed against his chest. She laughs quietly then, as if she knows what he is thinking. And she probably does. Words are unnecessary after all.

They lie there in silence for a while as he strokes her hair and she runs her fingers in little circles over his chest. What brought them to this point echoes through their minds but does not yet need to be discussed. How she came back from lunch today, agitated and out of sorts. How he confronted her in the men's room about it, dragging her back there in an odd twist as usually it was her following him in there. They did not speak again of it, but that is how they are. He finished whatever banal report he was working on, and she did the same, turning off her computer and desk lamp just as he stood up from his desk and put on his coat. She followed him to the elevator, and with just a telling glance, they both knew how this night would go. She took his hand when the elevator doors slid together, closing them off from any curious eyes. She held it as he drove them back to his apartment, clinging tightly to it, a lifeline. Even when he needed both hands to drive, she kept it in contact with him-resting it on his leg, his arm, his neck. And then when they made it through his door and their lips touched for the first time...No, none of this needed to be discussed now.

They drift off into sleep as past words float around them…

I'm tired of pretending… So am I…

Couldn't live without you, I guess…

You have always had my back…

Agent David, do you really consider me to be in your life…

Ray asked me to marry him…