NCIS: defuse (Ziva)
Title: defuse.
Fandom: NCIS
Characters: Ziva, Tony
Rating: PG
Summary: She cannot pick a color. Ziva dreams.
Ziva sits in front of a bomb with a cluster of wires in one hand and a knife in the other. She has twenty-eight seconds, and the choice between white, blue and green is almost impossible. Her brain doesn't seem to want to work, to process the colors and cross-reference them to all the explosives information crammed in her head.
Twenty-six seconds.
The knife wavers in her hand for just a second.
Twenty-five seconds.
She stares at the wires, furrowing her brow, and the block of C4 begins to melt under her gaze, puddling down onto her desk, oozing across case files and pens, her telephone, dripping off the edges into her trashcan. She grips the wires tighter, and moves the knife to the wires, touching each color with its razor sharp tip. White. Blue. Green.
Nineteen seconds.
Tony sits across from her, tossing a baseball in the air and catching it with an irritating rhythm. He opens his mouth, speaks, makes a reference to a movie she has never seen. "Where we're going, we don't need roads," he says, his words slow and slurred. The baseball hits his palm. Thwack.
Fifteen seconds.
Tony throws the ball again, and catches it again. Thwack.
White. Blue. Green. Thwack. Thwack. Thwack.
Ten, nine, eight.
Ziva slips the edge of the blade under the green wire.
Six, five, four.
Thwack.
The explosive melts.
Three, two, one.
She cuts the wire.
Thwack.
The detonation is sharp and piercing, and Ziva opens her eyes to silence her alarm.
Fandom: NCIS
Characters: Ziva, Tony
Rating: PG
Summary: She cannot pick a color. Ziva dreams.
Ziva sits in front of a bomb with a cluster of wires in one hand and a knife in the other. She has twenty-eight seconds, and the choice between white, blue and green is almost impossible. Her brain doesn't seem to want to work, to process the colors and cross-reference them to all the explosives information crammed in her head.
Twenty-six seconds.
The knife wavers in her hand for just a second.
Twenty-five seconds.
She stares at the wires, furrowing her brow, and the block of C4 begins to melt under her gaze, puddling down onto her desk, oozing across case files and pens, her telephone, dripping off the edges into her trashcan. She grips the wires tighter, and moves the knife to the wires, touching each color with its razor sharp tip. White. Blue. Green.
Nineteen seconds.
Tony sits across from her, tossing a baseball in the air and catching it with an irritating rhythm. He opens his mouth, speaks, makes a reference to a movie she has never seen. "Where we're going, we don't need roads," he says, his words slow and slurred. The baseball hits his palm. Thwack.
Fifteen seconds.
Tony throws the ball again, and catches it again. Thwack.
White. Blue. Green. Thwack. Thwack. Thwack.
Ten, nine, eight.
Ziva slips the edge of the blade under the green wire.
Six, five, four.
Thwack.
The explosive melts.
Three, two, one.
She cuts the wire.
Thwack.
The detonation is sharp and piercing, and Ziva opens her eyes to silence her alarm.