NCIS: A Bitter Flour (Abby/Ziva)
femslash_today hosted the Guns & Microscopes Ficathon. I was assigned to babylil, who requested Abby/Ziva, and Abby showing Ziva the nightlife.
Title: A Bitter Flour
Author: voleuse
Fandom: NCIS
Ship: Abby/Ziva
Rating: PG-13
Disclaimer: Not mine.
Summary: But where does she sleep, and what is her sleep like?
Notes: Early S3, no spoilers
It takes Abby three and a half weeks to decide whether Ziva might be nice or nemesis. And even after she's drawn her mental Venn diagrams around her, she doesn't let herself thaw.
That would make things too easy for everybody, and Abby isn't in the mood for that.
*
When a venti mocha frap hits her desk with a slosh, Abby blinks and raises her eyebrows.
Ziva answers her questioning look with a shrug. "McGee said something about your fondness for caffeinated drinks."
"Did he also mention my fondness for death metal and baby animals?" Abby takes a sip of the frap, then wrinkles her nose. "Because I've been jonesing for a trip to the zoo with Tony Choy."
"Sorry." Ziva blinks. "That was a joke, right?"
"The thing is, Ziva?" Abby takes another sip, then hands the cup back to Ziva. "I shouldn't have to tell you."
It's mean, meaner than she meant to be, but Ziva just takes the drink and retreats.
*
It nags at Abby through the morning, past lunch with Tony, and into the afternoon. Before closing time, she archives her files and takes the elevator up to the main floor. She stands fifteen feet off from Ziva's desk and ponders things.
Ziva is facing away from her, and Abby can see her shoulder twitching slightly--she's probably tapping her fingers. Tony's not around, and McGee staring intently at the fax machine.
"What is it, Abby?" Ziva asks. She hasn't even looked over her shoulder, and Abby jumps.
"Okay," Abby says as she walks up to Ziva's desk. "That is just creepy. Maybe beyond."
Ziva grins, her eyes still trained on her monitor. "Can I do something for you?"
Abby considers an apology for approximately five nanoseconds, then tilts her head. "What are you doing tonight?"
At that, Ziva looks up, though her gaze glides up at a decidedly slower pace than the rest of her.
Abby bites her lip.
Ziva raises an eyebrow. "Did you have something in mind?"
Abby jerks her hands upward and commands, "Stand up."
There's a beat, but Ziva does, and Abby makes a twirling motion with her finger. Ziva rolls her eyes.
"Fine." Abby steps around Ziva, brushing close as she squeezes against the desk.
Ziva cranes her neck to look at her. "What are you doing?"
"The black and the boots are good," Abby notes, "but you'll have to lose the shirt."
"I'd ask how this conversation began," Tony says as he slides behind his desk, "but I'd rather make it up myself."
Ziva makes an obscene gesture at Tony at the same time Abby gives him the finger.
By the fax machine, McGee chokes on a guffaw.
*
After the twentieth time Ziva tugs on her borrowed halter top, Abby elbows her.
The space around the bar is crowded, and Abby feels Ziva's arm tense, then relax.
"Sorry," Abby shouts into Ziva's ear.
Ziva turns her head, and Abby repeats it again, mouthing the word with exaggeration.
"Ah." Ziva nods, then presses her body against Abby's side. "I don't usually wear clothes like this. Was it really necessary?"
Abby watches a group of Catholic schoolgirls swish past them. Ziva's breath is warm against her neck. She takes a sip of her Shirley Temple and smirks.
"Nope." She grins against Ziva's glare. "What? You look hot."
"I'm not surprised." Ziva tugs on her top again. "It must be eighty degrees in here, with all the people--"
"Ziva!" Abby interrupts.
Ziva stares at her for a second, then her eyes flicker shut, and she sighs. "Slang. Right." Then she opens her eyes and smiles. "Thank you."
Abby sips her drink, and the ice is cool against her tongue.
*
It takes two hours of some really rocking music before Abby is able to drag Ziva onto the dance floor. Even then, Abby had to promise to owe Ziva one favor, having to do with Tony's server cache, Gibbs's e-mail, and the complete Britney Spears discography.
Finally, they insinuate themselves into the crowd. Even though there's barely enough room to sway, Ziva's swiveling and twirling and doing all sorts of things that Abby hadn't previously associated with her hips.
"This is fun," Ziva shouts.
Abby snaps her gaze up, and catches Ziva's grin. "Yeah?"
"Yes. Strange, also." Ziva nods her head towards a couple near them, handcuffed together and writhing. "Is that normal?"
"Sometimes." Abby twists, and her hip bumps against Ziva's wrist. "Maybe this isn't your scene?"
Ziva shakes her head. "I don't mind."
"Good," Abby shouts, and grabs Ziva's hands, spins them both around.
She can't quite hear over the music, but she thinks Ziva is laughing.
*
They stumble out of the club at close to three in the morning, and they're more tipsy from laughter than alcohol.
Abby pauses, leans against the brick of the building and lets the moonlight and cold seep into her.
Ziva slides next to her. "Are you all right?"
"Groovy." Abby smiles. It must be the excess energy making her skin buzz. "This was fun."
Ziva tilts her head. "Was?" She hasn't put her jacket on, and her body is warm next to Abby.
Abby contemplates the question, then shakes her head. "Is."
And then Ziva is close, and even closer, and her lips taste like tequila and Carmex.
Abby gasps, and Ziva's hand slides under the hem of her tank top. Her fingers are cold.
They part, and Abby watches Ziva watch her.
"So?" she asks, after a minute.
"So." Her fingers stroke up, a little higher, and Abby shivers.
"My place is probably closer," she blurts out.
Ziva smiles.
*
Abby wakes to bright light and the smell of burned toast.
She stretches, rubs her elbow and sighs. Carpet burn.
"You don't have any coffee," Ziva calls out. "Or tea."
Abby grabs a blanket to wrap around herself, then walks to the kitchenette.
Ziva's pouring orange juice into a mug. She sniffs the liquid, then shrugs and drinks.
"It's still good," Abby remarks, and pours herself a glass. "Sorry about the selection."
"I made toast," Ziva replies. "And called a taxi."
Abby drags a chair over with her foot, slumps into it. "I am sadly lacking in twill."
"Yes, well." Ziva bows, kisses Abby quickly, and then again. "I should go."
Abby waits until Ziva gets as far as the door.
"Thanks for the coffee," she says.
Ziva pauses, then laughs. "You're welcome."
Abby raises her glass in a toast, and Ziva salutes before pulling the door shut behind her.
###
A/N: Title and summary adapted from Günter Eich's Days With Jays:The jay does not throw me
its blue feather.
The acorns of his shrieks
grind in the early dawn.
A bitter flour, food
for the whole day.
All day, behind red leaves,
with a hard break
he hacks the night
out of branches, seeds, nuts,
a cloth that he pulls over me.
His flight is like a heartbeat.
But where does he sleep
and what is his sleep like?
The feather lies by my shoe
unseen in the darkness.
Title: A Bitter Flour
Author: voleuse
Fandom: NCIS
Ship: Abby/Ziva
Rating: PG-13
Disclaimer: Not mine.
Summary: But where does she sleep, and what is her sleep like?
Notes: Early S3, no spoilers
It takes Abby three and a half weeks to decide whether Ziva might be nice or nemesis. And even after she's drawn her mental Venn diagrams around her, she doesn't let herself thaw.
That would make things too easy for everybody, and Abby isn't in the mood for that.
*
When a venti mocha frap hits her desk with a slosh, Abby blinks and raises her eyebrows.
Ziva answers her questioning look with a shrug. "McGee said something about your fondness for caffeinated drinks."
"Did he also mention my fondness for death metal and baby animals?" Abby takes a sip of the frap, then wrinkles her nose. "Because I've been jonesing for a trip to the zoo with Tony Choy."
"Sorry." Ziva blinks. "That was a joke, right?"
"The thing is, Ziva?" Abby takes another sip, then hands the cup back to Ziva. "I shouldn't have to tell you."
It's mean, meaner than she meant to be, but Ziva just takes the drink and retreats.
*
It nags at Abby through the morning, past lunch with Tony, and into the afternoon. Before closing time, she archives her files and takes the elevator up to the main floor. She stands fifteen feet off from Ziva's desk and ponders things.
Ziva is facing away from her, and Abby can see her shoulder twitching slightly--she's probably tapping her fingers. Tony's not around, and McGee staring intently at the fax machine.
"What is it, Abby?" Ziva asks. She hasn't even looked over her shoulder, and Abby jumps.
"Okay," Abby says as she walks up to Ziva's desk. "That is just creepy. Maybe beyond."
Ziva grins, her eyes still trained on her monitor. "Can I do something for you?"
Abby considers an apology for approximately five nanoseconds, then tilts her head. "What are you doing tonight?"
At that, Ziva looks up, though her gaze glides up at a decidedly slower pace than the rest of her.
Abby bites her lip.
Ziva raises an eyebrow. "Did you have something in mind?"
Abby jerks her hands upward and commands, "Stand up."
There's a beat, but Ziva does, and Abby makes a twirling motion with her finger. Ziva rolls her eyes.
"Fine." Abby steps around Ziva, brushing close as she squeezes against the desk.
Ziva cranes her neck to look at her. "What are you doing?"
"The black and the boots are good," Abby notes, "but you'll have to lose the shirt."
"I'd ask how this conversation began," Tony says as he slides behind his desk, "but I'd rather make it up myself."
Ziva makes an obscene gesture at Tony at the same time Abby gives him the finger.
By the fax machine, McGee chokes on a guffaw.
*
After the twentieth time Ziva tugs on her borrowed halter top, Abby elbows her.
The space around the bar is crowded, and Abby feels Ziva's arm tense, then relax.
"Sorry," Abby shouts into Ziva's ear.
Ziva turns her head, and Abby repeats it again, mouthing the word with exaggeration.
"Ah." Ziva nods, then presses her body against Abby's side. "I don't usually wear clothes like this. Was it really necessary?"
Abby watches a group of Catholic schoolgirls swish past them. Ziva's breath is warm against her neck. She takes a sip of her Shirley Temple and smirks.
"Nope." She grins against Ziva's glare. "What? You look hot."
"I'm not surprised." Ziva tugs on her top again. "It must be eighty degrees in here, with all the people--"
"Ziva!" Abby interrupts.
Ziva stares at her for a second, then her eyes flicker shut, and she sighs. "Slang. Right." Then she opens her eyes and smiles. "Thank you."
Abby sips her drink, and the ice is cool against her tongue.
*
It takes two hours of some really rocking music before Abby is able to drag Ziva onto the dance floor. Even then, Abby had to promise to owe Ziva one favor, having to do with Tony's server cache, Gibbs's e-mail, and the complete Britney Spears discography.
Finally, they insinuate themselves into the crowd. Even though there's barely enough room to sway, Ziva's swiveling and twirling and doing all sorts of things that Abby hadn't previously associated with her hips.
"This is fun," Ziva shouts.
Abby snaps her gaze up, and catches Ziva's grin. "Yeah?"
"Yes. Strange, also." Ziva nods her head towards a couple near them, handcuffed together and writhing. "Is that normal?"
"Sometimes." Abby twists, and her hip bumps against Ziva's wrist. "Maybe this isn't your scene?"
Ziva shakes her head. "I don't mind."
"Good," Abby shouts, and grabs Ziva's hands, spins them both around.
She can't quite hear over the music, but she thinks Ziva is laughing.
*
They stumble out of the club at close to three in the morning, and they're more tipsy from laughter than alcohol.
Abby pauses, leans against the brick of the building and lets the moonlight and cold seep into her.
Ziva slides next to her. "Are you all right?"
"Groovy." Abby smiles. It must be the excess energy making her skin buzz. "This was fun."
Ziva tilts her head. "Was?" She hasn't put her jacket on, and her body is warm next to Abby.
Abby contemplates the question, then shakes her head. "Is."
And then Ziva is close, and even closer, and her lips taste like tequila and Carmex.
Abby gasps, and Ziva's hand slides under the hem of her tank top. Her fingers are cold.
They part, and Abby watches Ziva watch her.
"So?" she asks, after a minute.
"So." Her fingers stroke up, a little higher, and Abby shivers.
"My place is probably closer," she blurts out.
Ziva smiles.
*
Abby wakes to bright light and the smell of burned toast.
She stretches, rubs her elbow and sighs. Carpet burn.
"You don't have any coffee," Ziva calls out. "Or tea."
Abby grabs a blanket to wrap around herself, then walks to the kitchenette.
Ziva's pouring orange juice into a mug. She sniffs the liquid, then shrugs and drinks.
"It's still good," Abby remarks, and pours herself a glass. "Sorry about the selection."
"I made toast," Ziva replies. "And called a taxi."
Abby drags a chair over with her foot, slumps into it. "I am sadly lacking in twill."
"Yes, well." Ziva bows, kisses Abby quickly, and then again. "I should go."
Abby waits until Ziva gets as far as the door.
"Thanks for the coffee," she says.
Ziva pauses, then laughs. "You're welcome."
Abby raises her glass in a toast, and Ziva salutes before pulling the door shut behind her.
###
A/N: Title and summary adapted from Günter Eich's Days With Jays:The jay does not throw me
its blue feather.
The acorns of his shrieks
grind in the early dawn.
A bitter flour, food
for the whole day.
All day, behind red leaves,
with a hard break
he hacks the night
out of branches, seeds, nuts,
a cloth that he pulls over me.
His flight is like a heartbeat.
But where does he sleep
and what is his sleep like?
The feather lies by my shoe
unseen in the darkness.