fic: one mirror (ncis)
STATUS: Complete
SUMMARY: He probably shouldn't smile.
RATING: PG
CLASSIFICATIONS: Tony/Ziva
SPOILERS: Jet Lag (7x13)
ARCHIVING: Do not archive. Please ask.
NOTES: Unbeta'd. Sorry. French translations in mouseover.
WORDS: 1,442
DISCLAIMER: Not mine. Don't sue.
Copyright anr; February 2010.
* * * * *
One Mirror by anr
* * * * *
It's not that he has expectations, per se. He knows better than that. It's more like he has... an idea. Part of an idea. A slim, half-baked, what-if, mini-thought of a part of an idea. Maybe.
"So," he says, trying to stretch out his legs. "You and me. Together. In Paris."
Ziva ignores him, reclining back in her seat and closing her eyes.
"I admit, there's pressure. We're joining a long list of notable greats. Rick and Ilsa. Christian and Satine. Chuckie and Angelica."
The last pair gets her attention. "Who?"
"Rugrats," he explains, and coughs to get the voice right. "Maybe this isn't such a good idea, Tommy."
"That I will agree with."
He raises an eyebrow, surprised. "The implied demands of our cinematic predecessors to make this a trip to remember?"
"No."
*
"... Tower, Notre Dame, the Catacombs --"
Without looking up from her book, she says, "this is not a vacation, Tony."
Ignoring her, he marks his page in the guide book he picked up at Dulles and reaches for the phone.
"Who are you calling?"
"The hotel. I want to make sure there's a scooter waiting for us when we get there."
He's pretty sure her muttered response isn't translatable into any language.
*
McGee calls as they're leaving the airport. "So," he says brightly, "how's it going?"
He frowns, instantly suspicious. "Why?"
"Gibbs wants an update."
Oh. Right. "Never better, McGee. We're in the city of a thousand --"
"Tony!"
He looks over to where Ziva's flagged down a taxi for them. "Oops, gotta go, McGee. Stay out of my --" He hangs up deliberately.
Ziva waits for him to get in before asking, "who was that?"
"McGee."
"And you are smiling because...?"
He grins. "Some set-up's are just way too easy."
*
When he realises the woman at the front desk is talking neither English or French (the only possible explanation for what he's hearing her say), he snaps his fingers. "Probie! Translate."
Ziva rolls her eyes, but starts up a swift, no-holds-but-English-barred conversation with the woman anyway. He listens to the back-and-forth absently as he looks around the lobby, taking in the details.
"Tony," Ziva says, touching his arm and gesturing towards the elevator.
"It was my French, wasn't it?" He shakes his head as he grabs their bags. "Never should have bought those CDs. 'I would like the fish on the side' just doesn't come up in conversation nearly as much as the infomercial would have you believe."
"Your French was not the problem," she says, taking her bag from him. "For once."
*
Any chivalrous thoughts he'd been contemplating on the elevator ride dissipate rapidly once they're inside their room. He's pretty sure his desk at work is bigger than what the French call a couch. Softer, too.
"Considering how cliché this all is already, I want you to know that I'm trying really hard right now not to point out that the French word for cliché is cliché."
Ziva's already disappearing into the bathroom. "Try harder."
*
"Out or in?" he asks when she emerges. Off her look, he adds, "for dinner?" He waves his guide book. "While I'm pretty impressed by all the stars in this, I'm sure you know some even better hole-in-the-wall's."
"It has been several years since I lived in France," she says. "Any damages would have been long ago repaired."
He rolls his eyes. "Not quite what I meant, David. But point taken." He exchanges the guide book for the hotel menu. "Room service it is."
*
"Ter-ryn-ee day sow-mon orx eppi-nards..."
"Give me that." She snatches the menu out of his hands. "Idiot."
Hiding a grin, he heads for the bathroom. "No snails!"
*
She orders him steak, just the way he likes it, and he's pathetically grateful there's not a single Academy Award winner or James Cameron playing on the TV, because that and a beer would pretty much make this perfect.
"McGee," he says. "Had to be."
"He does have the skills required to covertly change a hotel booking." She nods slowly. "And he was quite happy when we left work yesterday."
Not to mention that chirpy little phone call earlier. "The jealousy must have been eating him up." Pointing with his knife, he sighs dramatically. "Our lil' probie's all growed, dear."
She disarms him without blinking. "That is not a real word."
"Outside of the boondocks, no." He takes her knife, and knows it's only because she lets him. "What says revenge from another continent?"
She is silent for a long moment. Then, "proving him wrong."
"Deal." He raises his water glass. "You'll like me, I'll like you, and together we'll have McGee freaked out by our BFF-ness in no time."
She smiles.
*
He tries not to look at his watch while he brushes his teeth. It's almost criminal to be heading to bed at only eight o'clock, and the fact that his body seems to think it's past two in the morning is a small, insignificant consolation.
"All yours," he says, back in the main room, and Ziva grabs her gear.
While she's in the bathroom, he finishes turning down the bed. There's a knife and a gun under the pillow on the right side, a second knife between the mattress and base. He puts the knives back in her bag, and leaves the gun on the side table, safety on.
"Crazy ninja," he mutters.
(He probably shouldn't smile as he says it.)
*
He tosses and turns a couple of times after she gets into the bed, trying to get comfortable. He ends up on his stomach, face buried into his pillow, and all too conscious of her lying just inches away. If he wasn't so tired and jet lagged and afraid of fucking things up just when they're starting to get good again...
Ziva pushes back the covers and the mattress moves as she swings her legs over the side.
"Leave 'em," he says tiredly.
She freezes. "You had no --"
"Not wanting to wake up as a porcupine gives me every right." He yawns. "Blame McGee."
He counts his breaths until she lies back down, tugging at the covers, and it's better than sheep. He yawns again.
"I could still do that," she says shortly. "Porcupine you. Without a knife."
He probably should have made her shake on their deal. "Happy dreams to you, too."
*
She still snores worse than any other living creature.
Ever.
*
He wakes first, blinking away sleep as he rolls over.
She's lying on her side, facing him, and while he knows, remembers, that this is not the first time he's ever seen her asleep (even if it is the first time they've shared a bed in four years), the sight of her there, so close, so possibly accessible, hits harder than he would have expected:
I want to get used to this.
*
He showers and dresses as quietly as he can, scribbling a quick note on the hotel stationery that he's going sightseeing. He might only have two hours before they're due at the Embassy, but he's pretty sure he can drive past at least three of the sights in that time. Maybe four; it's still pretty early.
Before he leaves the room, he slides her survival knife back under her pillow.
*
Ziva calls him less than an hour later, her voice sleepy and soft, like talking to him was the first thing she thought of when she woke up.
"Where are you?"
He grins and snaps off another image of the Louvre, one-handed. "Paris."
"Informative," she says dryly. He listens to her move around their room while he waits for a couple of early-bird tourists to get out of the way of his next shot. "We have a message from the airline." She sighs. "Our flight has been delayed until this afternoon."
Best. Trip. Ever. "Want to climb the Eiffel Tower with me? I could swing back to the hotel and pick you up on my très magnifique scooter."
"Pass."
"You sure? This might be a once in a lifetime opportunity, Ziva. You and me on the streets of the city of lo--"
She cuts him off. "I am sure." There's a brief pause. "Tony?"
"Yeah?"
"Don't forget to --"
The line goes dead as she hangs up on him.
Grinning, he slips his cell back into his jacket pocket.
Oh yeah. He definitely wants to get used to this.
* * * * *
The End.
FEEDBACK: Always appreciated. *g*
SUMMARY: He probably shouldn't smile.
RATING: PG
CLASSIFICATIONS: Tony/Ziva
SPOILERS: Jet Lag (7x13)
ARCHIVING: Do not archive. Please ask.
NOTES: Unbeta'd. Sorry. French translations in mouseover.
WORDS: 1,442
DISCLAIMER: Not mine. Don't sue.
Copyright anr; February 2010.
* * * * *
One Mirror by anr
* * * * *
It's not that he has expectations, per se. He knows better than that. It's more like he has... an idea. Part of an idea. A slim, half-baked, what-if, mini-thought of a part of an idea. Maybe.
"So," he says, trying to stretch out his legs. "You and me. Together. In Paris."
Ziva ignores him, reclining back in her seat and closing her eyes.
"I admit, there's pressure. We're joining a long list of notable greats. Rick and Ilsa. Christian and Satine. Chuckie and Angelica."
The last pair gets her attention. "Who?"
"Rugrats," he explains, and coughs to get the voice right. "Maybe this isn't such a good idea, Tommy."
"That I will agree with."
He raises an eyebrow, surprised. "The implied demands of our cinematic predecessors to make this a trip to remember?"
"No."
*
"... Tower, Notre Dame, the Catacombs --"
Without looking up from her book, she says, "this is not a vacation, Tony."
Ignoring her, he marks his page in the guide book he picked up at Dulles and reaches for the phone.
"Who are you calling?"
"The hotel. I want to make sure there's a scooter waiting for us when we get there."
He's pretty sure her muttered response isn't translatable into any language.
*
McGee calls as they're leaving the airport. "So," he says brightly, "how's it going?"
He frowns, instantly suspicious. "Why?"
"Gibbs wants an update."
Oh. Right. "Never better, McGee. We're in the city of a thousand --"
"Tony!"
He looks over to where Ziva's flagged down a taxi for them. "Oops, gotta go, McGee. Stay out of my --" He hangs up deliberately.
Ziva waits for him to get in before asking, "who was that?"
"McGee."
"And you are smiling because...?"
He grins. "Some set-up's are just way too easy."
*
When he realises the woman at the front desk is talking neither English or French (the only possible explanation for what he's hearing her say), he snaps his fingers. "Probie! Translate."
Ziva rolls her eyes, but starts up a swift, no-holds-but-English-barred conversation with the woman anyway. He listens to the back-and-forth absently as he looks around the lobby, taking in the details.
"Tony," Ziva says, touching his arm and gesturing towards the elevator.
"It was my French, wasn't it?" He shakes his head as he grabs their bags. "Never should have bought those CDs. 'I would like the fish on the side' just doesn't come up in conversation nearly as much as the infomercial would have you believe."
"Your French was not the problem," she says, taking her bag from him. "For once."
*
Any chivalrous thoughts he'd been contemplating on the elevator ride dissipate rapidly once they're inside their room. He's pretty sure his desk at work is bigger than what the French call a couch. Softer, too.
"Considering how cliché this all is already, I want you to know that I'm trying really hard right now not to point out that the French word for cliché is cliché."
Ziva's already disappearing into the bathroom. "Try harder."
*
"Out or in?" he asks when she emerges. Off her look, he adds, "for dinner?" He waves his guide book. "While I'm pretty impressed by all the stars in this, I'm sure you know some even better hole-in-the-wall's."
"It has been several years since I lived in France," she says. "Any damages would have been long ago repaired."
He rolls his eyes. "Not quite what I meant, David. But point taken." He exchanges the guide book for the hotel menu. "Room service it is."
*
"Ter-ryn-ee day sow-mon orx eppi-nards..."
"Give me that." She snatches the menu out of his hands. "Idiot."
Hiding a grin, he heads for the bathroom. "No snails!"
*
She orders him steak, just the way he likes it, and he's pathetically grateful there's not a single Academy Award winner or James Cameron playing on the TV, because that and a beer would pretty much make this perfect.
"McGee," he says. "Had to be."
"He does have the skills required to covertly change a hotel booking." She nods slowly. "And he was quite happy when we left work yesterday."
Not to mention that chirpy little phone call earlier. "The jealousy must have been eating him up." Pointing with his knife, he sighs dramatically. "Our lil' probie's all growed, dear."
She disarms him without blinking. "That is not a real word."
"Outside of the boondocks, no." He takes her knife, and knows it's only because she lets him. "What says revenge from another continent?"
She is silent for a long moment. Then, "proving him wrong."
"Deal." He raises his water glass. "You'll like me, I'll like you, and together we'll have McGee freaked out by our BFF-ness in no time."
She smiles.
*
He tries not to look at his watch while he brushes his teeth. It's almost criminal to be heading to bed at only eight o'clock, and the fact that his body seems to think it's past two in the morning is a small, insignificant consolation.
"All yours," he says, back in the main room, and Ziva grabs her gear.
While she's in the bathroom, he finishes turning down the bed. There's a knife and a gun under the pillow on the right side, a second knife between the mattress and base. He puts the knives back in her bag, and leaves the gun on the side table, safety on.
"Crazy ninja," he mutters.
(He probably shouldn't smile as he says it.)
*
He tosses and turns a couple of times after she gets into the bed, trying to get comfortable. He ends up on his stomach, face buried into his pillow, and all too conscious of her lying just inches away. If he wasn't so tired and jet lagged and afraid of fucking things up just when they're starting to get good again...
Ziva pushes back the covers and the mattress moves as she swings her legs over the side.
"Leave 'em," he says tiredly.
She freezes. "You had no --"
"Not wanting to wake up as a porcupine gives me every right." He yawns. "Blame McGee."
He counts his breaths until she lies back down, tugging at the covers, and it's better than sheep. He yawns again.
"I could still do that," she says shortly. "Porcupine you. Without a knife."
He probably should have made her shake on their deal. "Happy dreams to you, too."
*
She still snores worse than any other living creature.
Ever.
*
He wakes first, blinking away sleep as he rolls over.
She's lying on her side, facing him, and while he knows, remembers, that this is not the first time he's ever seen her asleep (even if it is the first time they've shared a bed in four years), the sight of her there, so close, so possibly accessible, hits harder than he would have expected:
I want to get used to this.
*
He showers and dresses as quietly as he can, scribbling a quick note on the hotel stationery that he's going sightseeing. He might only have two hours before they're due at the Embassy, but he's pretty sure he can drive past at least three of the sights in that time. Maybe four; it's still pretty early.
Before he leaves the room, he slides her survival knife back under her pillow.
*
Ziva calls him less than an hour later, her voice sleepy and soft, like talking to him was the first thing she thought of when she woke up.
"Where are you?"
He grins and snaps off another image of the Louvre, one-handed. "Paris."
"Informative," she says dryly. He listens to her move around their room while he waits for a couple of early-bird tourists to get out of the way of his next shot. "We have a message from the airline." She sighs. "Our flight has been delayed until this afternoon."
Best. Trip. Ever. "Want to climb the Eiffel Tower with me? I could swing back to the hotel and pick you up on my très magnifique scooter."
"Pass."
"You sure? This might be a once in a lifetime opportunity, Ziva. You and me on the streets of the city of lo--"
She cuts him off. "I am sure." There's a brief pause. "Tony?"
"Yeah?"
"Don't forget to --"
The line goes dead as she hangs up on him.
Grinning, he slips his cell back into his jacket pocket.
Oh yeah. He definitely wants to get used to this.
* * * * *
The End.
FEEDBACK: Always appreciated. *g*