Update + 4 femslashy ficlets in 4 fandoms (Grey's Anatomy, BSG, Dead Like Me, NCIS)
Before I get my act together with Luau fic (it's coming guys, I've just been tapped out with Lost for some reason), I'm posting the stuff I've been doing for the femslash battle.
Title: You Look Different In The LA Sun
Fandom: Grey's Anatomy
Characters/Pairings: Addison/Erica
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 686
Summary:She'd ask the other woman what the hell she’s doing, jumping into bed with her friend’s very recent, as in two days ago recent, ex-girlfriend, except she suspects that Addison's moral compass is often interrupted by impulse and need.
She almost doesn’t recognize her.
Erica figures she can hardly be blamed - her time with Addison had been short, limited to a brief introduction, snippets of conversation, a none too subtle glance sent her way that she was sure meant the other woman was sizing her up.
Today, she’s just a passer-by on the street, her sunglasses perched atop her head, skin a little tanner, hair a shade darker. She looks different in the L.A. sun; she looks different when she doesn’t seem preoccupied with keeping up appearances. That’s what she chalked it up to, the first and last time she saw the other woman - trying, nearly succeeding, in convincing everyone she’d left behind that she was just fine, really, and she didn’t regret a thing.
“Fancy seeing you here,” Erica’s the one who stops her, despite the numerous and varied reasons why she shouldn’t.
Addison recognizes her right away; she’s fairly sure that isn’t a good thing. “Erica Hahn. I was just thinking about you.” Erica’s smile is a tight, thin lipped line that perks up only ever so slightly at the corners. She should’ve just kept on walking. “Last I heard you left my friend in a parking lot in Seattle. I can only imagine what brings you here.”
There’s no actual question there, so she doesn’t answer the last sentence. Instead, she tells her, “I left a lot of things in a parking lot in Seattle.”
Strangely, Addison nods after a moment, and it almost seems like she understands. Even stranger, Addison asks if she wants to get a drink at this little place she knows.
“Why not? Might as well while I’m here,” will somehow be simultaneously the stupidest and smartest thing she says all day.
A drink ends up being wine, and several glasses of it at that, and then Addison wants to show her the house she has right by the beach. They’re kissing before they’re all the way inside of said house, and as a result Erica doesn’t end up seeing a whole lot past the route they take to the bedroom.
She’d ask the other woman what the hell she’s doing, jumping into bed with her friend’s very recent, as in two days ago recent, ex-girlfriend, except she suspects that Addison’s moral compass is often interrupted by impulse and need. It’s a valid suspicion; this is a woman who once slept with her husband’s best friend, and if the rumor mill is to be believed also carried on a very brief dalliance with Alex Karev. Really, when you look at it like that, she shouldn’t be very surprised at all.
Addison kisses her like there’s no internal monologue going on in her own head, like she’s doing this without thinking, tugging eagerly at Erica’s shirt with the same kind of fierceness that Callie possessed, but with none of the fumbling. Addison’s movements are all intentional, perfectly executed, and the thought that maybe Addison’s been done this road before, maybe even with Callie, gnaws at her. Addison’s lips, flashes of teeth, against her neck, do a good job of silencing it. Addison’s probably been here before, but not with Callie. There still are places that Addison won’t go, apparently.
She never does ask what Erica’s doing in L.A., not over half-full glasses of red wine, or when her hands are slipping underneath the sides of Erica’s panties, easing them down painfully slowly, or the next morning when Erica’s untangling her bra from the pile of sheets that lie on the ground at the foot of the bed. She leaves that one alone. Erica almost wishes she wouldn’t, that she could tell her, could share her side of the story maybe, but she doesn’t do desperate, and she’s fairly sure that just because Addison maybe understands, just because Addison slept with her, certainly doesn’t mean she’s going to take her side over that of an old friend’s.
Erica doesn’t stick around to see if day two of her stay here would loosen Addison’s tongue; she just goes. She’s getting better at this leaving thing; it hurts less this time around.
---
Title: A Minute In Your Shoes (They'll Never Fit)
Fandom: Battlestar Galactica
Characters/Pairings: Boomer/Cally
Rating: NC-17
Word Count: 476
Summary:"Don't judge a book by it's cover," she exhales, never quite realizing how appropriate the old saying is for the both of them.
Cally’s hostile; it would be more understandable if she wasn’t the one who fired a round point-blank into Boomer’s abdomen.
“Don’t judge a book by its cover,” Boomer murmurs to herself, a second before her voice cuts away to a gasp that gets caught in the back of her throat. The hand Cally has on the inside of Boomer’s thigh, spreading her wider, increases its pressure as Cally’s fingers trace patterns along her folds, teasing; it’s proving her point. Cally looks like noting more than a wide-eyed teenager most of the time, all sweet smiles and youthful eagerness, except for now, when she looks just as roughed up and raw as the rest of them. It’s a side of her she hadn’t expected to find.
Then again, Cally probably hadn’t expected to find this side of Boomer either, the Cylon side of her that was always just below the surface, no matter what she liked to admit to herself, so she figures that age-old saying applies to the both of them just as well.
“What?” Cally asks, and Boomer’s almost surprised to hear the breathy sort of quality her voice has taken on. If she’s as turned on as Boomer is, and she sure as hell sounds like it, then the expression on her face would never have given her away.
“Nothing,” Boomer replies, quickly, feeling Cally’s fingers finally slip inside of her, curling just as the corners of Cally’s lips do. It’s symmetrical like that. Boomer arches a little, not at all of her own volition. “Don’t stop.”
And Cally doesn’t. She keeps thrusting her small fingers, three that feel more like two, inside of her, the pad of her thumb bumping against her clit every now and then, straight up until Boomer’s clenching and coming around her.
Later, when Boomer’s breathing is back to something resembling normal, Cally bites her lip, backed up against the wall with her knees drawn up, looking like she’s torn between expecting something in return and backing out entirely. Boomer moves towards her, closing the few inches between them, and presses her lips to Cally’s, a flick of the tongue as they separate.
“This isn’t an apology,” Cally tells her, eyes dropping down, the tip of her thumb caught between her teeth for a moment. That wide-eyed girl again, only vulnerable this time. “If you’re looking for me to tell I’m sorry it’s never going to happen. Because I’m not.”
“I didn’t think it was one,” Boomer replies, not at all surprised. That would be too easy, and life is never easy. She may be a Cylon, she may not be pure like they like to think they are, but she understands that much.
“I did what I had to,” and her voice, smaller now, one last bout of defensiveness mixed with a tinge of regret, gives her away.
---
Title: Mirror Mirror On The Wall
Fandom: Dead Like Me
Characters/Pairings: Daisy/George
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 724
Summary:Daisy likes mirrors. Mostly, she likes any kind of shiny surface that she can get a good look at herself in, so George guesses what she should really be saying is that Daisy likes her own reflection.
Daisy likes mirrors. Mostly, she likes any kind of shiny surface that she can get a good look at herself in, so George guesses what she really should be saying is that Daisy likes her own reflection.
It’s something that George is fairly unfamiliar with. Despite her own flaws, a list of which she’s fairly sure her mother kept on hand for every argument as well as nearly all family engagements, vanity was never one of them. She never spent hours agonizing over her outfit for her first day at school or checked her hair every five minutes to make sure she looked extra special for whatever boy she thought she might like for seven hours on a Tuesday. More often than not, she rolled out of bed and pulled on clothes in the dim light that seeped in from the windows.
Daisy spent hours inspecting every inch of her skin to see if her new moisturizer was as effective as they said it would be, or if the new twin set she bought looked as good in natural light as it did in the fluorescent ones at the store.
Because of that she was almost always flawless, something George would never, ever admit to her, not even if a gun was pressed to her temple because, hey, not like she can really die twice.
Because of that, she also had a fixation with mirrors. And maybe George shouldn’t be entirely surprised at all the activities that fixation manages to carry over to, but she is, even as she slowly but surely figures out why Daisy keeps trying to reposition them on the bed.
“What are you…” George finally starts, pulling back, her hand still halfway up Daisy’s shirt, and her leg bent at a supremely awkward and slightly painful angle that resulted from Daisy’s latest manipulation of their bodies. The rest of her question is fully formed but it gets stuck on the tip of her tongue as she catches sight of the both of them in the reflection of Daisy’s gold edged mirror that hangs front and center on the wall opposite Daisy’s bed. And then she gets it. “Are you kidding me?”
Daisy follows her gaze straight to the mirror, and gives a relieved sigh, “Finally. Now if you could just move a little to the left.”
She feels Daisy’s hand on her hip, nudging her that way, except George doesn’t let her, instead staying rooted in place. “You’re trying to watch yourself having sex?”
“Oh Georgia, don’t sound so surprised.” The use of her given name makes her cringe. Her hands are, for the time being, completely removed from Daisy’s person, and she’s halfway considering reaching for her shirt and going into her own room, except that would cause awkward tension and just seems like too much trouble at the moment. “I do this with everyone.”
It would be better if she didn’t believe Daisy, but she does, hell she’s even wondering why she didn’t figure that out sooner. “You realize that is wrong on so many levels.”
“Plenty of people do it. Why do you think there are hotel rooms with mirrors on the ceiling?”
George doesn’t want to think about that. She doesn’t care about the pretty pictures that the bodice ripper novels and scripted silver screen sex scenes paint. The fact of the matter is no one really looks all that hot during sex, at least not from the angle of a strategically, but perhaps not well, placed mirror. She would think someone like Daisy would just sit there and count flaws, unless she’s deluded enough to believe that she has none, which is possible with her too.
“Close your eyes if you don’t like it,” Daisy recommends, oh so helpfully, and picks up where they left off without waiting for any kind of permission or sign from George. Her lips taste fruity against George’s own, and Daisy’s well-manicured fingernails skim along her sides, up to her breasts, the thin material of her bra serving as the only barrier from skin slipping along skin, and it sort of kills any desire in her to continue this conversation.
That mirror still goes missing the next morning, and Daisy bitches and complains and generally loses her mind while George sips her coffee and tries not to smile too wide.
---
Title: Sugar Rush
Fandom: NCIS
Characters/Pairings: Abby/Ziva
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 678
Summary:She is allowing herself to be distracted by a candy cane. Or at least the woman eating the candy cane.
Ziva knows these things about Abby:
She is skilled enough to be able to commit murder and manipulate the evidence so much that it would never leave even a hint of a trace back to her, which would worry anyone who didn’t know her very well. She panics any time one of them gets themselves in a bad situation that could lend itself to injury or worse, and she is wary of strangers coming into the mix, especially women (two facts that she has come to understand can be easily linked in one word - Kate). She was never intimidated by Ziva, which is more than she can say for Tony and McGee. Despite all the black and the skulls and the heavy metal, she is the most innocent of all of them, the one who might shatter the next time one of them doesn’t make it home.
Ziva knows all of these things and yet, today, somehow they feel less important in the face of this:
When Abby swirls her tongue around one of the numerous candy canes she’s been using as a festive sugar high to compliment her caffeine high, the red bleeding into pink on her lips, it’s somehow the sexiest thing she’s ever seen.
“And okay you’re really going to have to stop looking at me like you’ve never seen a candy cane before. This is like your third Christmas here; I know that’s not possible.” Abby says, candy finally away from her mouth, her tongue flicking bright red against her teeth. “And it’s distracting.”
That is one thing they both can agree on. It is distracting, much in the same way as Tony’s near constant drumming of his fingers against the desk whenever he’s on hold - both make focusing on the task at hand fairly impossible - except instead of wanting to kill her, which she is wont to do with Tony, she finds herself eager for the taste of Abby’s mouth on her tongue. Rather than make any of that known, however, she simply says, “I have seen a candy cane before, Abby.”
“Then what?” Abby asks, sounding slightly more frustrated. Her candy coated lips turn down at the corners, forming the beginnings of a frown. “Do I have something on my face?”
“We should really focus,” Ziva starts, finding her way out of this conversation. “Gibbs will not be pleased if he comes down here only to find us discussing your choice in Christmas candy.”
Abby steps in front of the computer monitor that had been displaying information from the case they were currently working on, childishly blocking it from Ziva’s view. “No, now you’ve got me worried.”
“Abby, I promise, it is nothing,” she says, absolutely as genuinely as possible. The other woman merely narrows her eyes and crosses her arms over her chest. She is not buying this. “Fine,” Ziva starts again, before she’s got a good lie in mind. That’s probably where this all goes wrong. “It is just, well…how do you say…”
“How do you say what?” Abby asks, slow and with the patience of a kindergarten teacher.
Ziva thinks. And thinks. And usually she is good at thinking on her feet, but today just isn’t her day and what ends up coming out is, “oh, nail it,” right before she kisses her.
Abby’s mouth tastes like peppermint, not shocking like mouthwash or someone who has had a little too much Schnapps, but sweet, comforting in an almost child-like way. She kisses back, like she isn’t entirely stunned by the fact that Ziva just did that, their tongues tangling as Ziva puts one solid hand on Abby’s arm and moves just centimeters closer.
After a moment, Ziva’s the one to pull back, studying Abby, searching out a reaction. All she gets is a raised eyebrow, and a, “First of all, the expression is screw it, not nail it. Nailing it is a couple of bases farther than that was. Second of all, do that again.”
She does.
They employ the rarely used lock on the door not long after.
Title: You Look Different In The LA Sun
Fandom: Grey's Anatomy
Characters/Pairings: Addison/Erica
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 686
Summary:She'd ask the other woman what the hell she’s doing, jumping into bed with her friend’s very recent, as in two days ago recent, ex-girlfriend, except she suspects that Addison's moral compass is often interrupted by impulse and need.
She almost doesn’t recognize her.
Erica figures she can hardly be blamed - her time with Addison had been short, limited to a brief introduction, snippets of conversation, a none too subtle glance sent her way that she was sure meant the other woman was sizing her up.
Today, she’s just a passer-by on the street, her sunglasses perched atop her head, skin a little tanner, hair a shade darker. She looks different in the L.A. sun; she looks different when she doesn’t seem preoccupied with keeping up appearances. That’s what she chalked it up to, the first and last time she saw the other woman - trying, nearly succeeding, in convincing everyone she’d left behind that she was just fine, really, and she didn’t regret a thing.
“Fancy seeing you here,” Erica’s the one who stops her, despite the numerous and varied reasons why she shouldn’t.
Addison recognizes her right away; she’s fairly sure that isn’t a good thing. “Erica Hahn. I was just thinking about you.” Erica’s smile is a tight, thin lipped line that perks up only ever so slightly at the corners. She should’ve just kept on walking. “Last I heard you left my friend in a parking lot in Seattle. I can only imagine what brings you here.”
There’s no actual question there, so she doesn’t answer the last sentence. Instead, she tells her, “I left a lot of things in a parking lot in Seattle.”
Strangely, Addison nods after a moment, and it almost seems like she understands. Even stranger, Addison asks if she wants to get a drink at this little place she knows.
“Why not? Might as well while I’m here,” will somehow be simultaneously the stupidest and smartest thing she says all day.
A drink ends up being wine, and several glasses of it at that, and then Addison wants to show her the house she has right by the beach. They’re kissing before they’re all the way inside of said house, and as a result Erica doesn’t end up seeing a whole lot past the route they take to the bedroom.
She’d ask the other woman what the hell she’s doing, jumping into bed with her friend’s very recent, as in two days ago recent, ex-girlfriend, except she suspects that Addison’s moral compass is often interrupted by impulse and need. It’s a valid suspicion; this is a woman who once slept with her husband’s best friend, and if the rumor mill is to be believed also carried on a very brief dalliance with Alex Karev. Really, when you look at it like that, she shouldn’t be very surprised at all.
Addison kisses her like there’s no internal monologue going on in her own head, like she’s doing this without thinking, tugging eagerly at Erica’s shirt with the same kind of fierceness that Callie possessed, but with none of the fumbling. Addison’s movements are all intentional, perfectly executed, and the thought that maybe Addison’s been done this road before, maybe even with Callie, gnaws at her. Addison’s lips, flashes of teeth, against her neck, do a good job of silencing it. Addison’s probably been here before, but not with Callie. There still are places that Addison won’t go, apparently.
She never does ask what Erica’s doing in L.A., not over half-full glasses of red wine, or when her hands are slipping underneath the sides of Erica’s panties, easing them down painfully slowly, or the next morning when Erica’s untangling her bra from the pile of sheets that lie on the ground at the foot of the bed. She leaves that one alone. Erica almost wishes she wouldn’t, that she could tell her, could share her side of the story maybe, but she doesn’t do desperate, and she’s fairly sure that just because Addison maybe understands, just because Addison slept with her, certainly doesn’t mean she’s going to take her side over that of an old friend’s.
Erica doesn’t stick around to see if day two of her stay here would loosen Addison’s tongue; she just goes. She’s getting better at this leaving thing; it hurts less this time around.
---
Title: A Minute In Your Shoes (They'll Never Fit)
Fandom: Battlestar Galactica
Characters/Pairings: Boomer/Cally
Rating: NC-17
Word Count: 476
Summary:"Don't judge a book by it's cover," she exhales, never quite realizing how appropriate the old saying is for the both of them.
Cally’s hostile; it would be more understandable if she wasn’t the one who fired a round point-blank into Boomer’s abdomen.
“Don’t judge a book by its cover,” Boomer murmurs to herself, a second before her voice cuts away to a gasp that gets caught in the back of her throat. The hand Cally has on the inside of Boomer’s thigh, spreading her wider, increases its pressure as Cally’s fingers trace patterns along her folds, teasing; it’s proving her point. Cally looks like noting more than a wide-eyed teenager most of the time, all sweet smiles and youthful eagerness, except for now, when she looks just as roughed up and raw as the rest of them. It’s a side of her she hadn’t expected to find.
Then again, Cally probably hadn’t expected to find this side of Boomer either, the Cylon side of her that was always just below the surface, no matter what she liked to admit to herself, so she figures that age-old saying applies to the both of them just as well.
“What?” Cally asks, and Boomer’s almost surprised to hear the breathy sort of quality her voice has taken on. If she’s as turned on as Boomer is, and she sure as hell sounds like it, then the expression on her face would never have given her away.
“Nothing,” Boomer replies, quickly, feeling Cally’s fingers finally slip inside of her, curling just as the corners of Cally’s lips do. It’s symmetrical like that. Boomer arches a little, not at all of her own volition. “Don’t stop.”
And Cally doesn’t. She keeps thrusting her small fingers, three that feel more like two, inside of her, the pad of her thumb bumping against her clit every now and then, straight up until Boomer’s clenching and coming around her.
Later, when Boomer’s breathing is back to something resembling normal, Cally bites her lip, backed up against the wall with her knees drawn up, looking like she’s torn between expecting something in return and backing out entirely. Boomer moves towards her, closing the few inches between them, and presses her lips to Cally’s, a flick of the tongue as they separate.
“This isn’t an apology,” Cally tells her, eyes dropping down, the tip of her thumb caught between her teeth for a moment. That wide-eyed girl again, only vulnerable this time. “If you’re looking for me to tell I’m sorry it’s never going to happen. Because I’m not.”
“I didn’t think it was one,” Boomer replies, not at all surprised. That would be too easy, and life is never easy. She may be a Cylon, she may not be pure like they like to think they are, but she understands that much.
“I did what I had to,” and her voice, smaller now, one last bout of defensiveness mixed with a tinge of regret, gives her away.
---
Title: Mirror Mirror On The Wall
Fandom: Dead Like Me
Characters/Pairings: Daisy/George
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 724
Summary:Daisy likes mirrors. Mostly, she likes any kind of shiny surface that she can get a good look at herself in, so George guesses what she should really be saying is that Daisy likes her own reflection.
Daisy likes mirrors. Mostly, she likes any kind of shiny surface that she can get a good look at herself in, so George guesses what she really should be saying is that Daisy likes her own reflection.
It’s something that George is fairly unfamiliar with. Despite her own flaws, a list of which she’s fairly sure her mother kept on hand for every argument as well as nearly all family engagements, vanity was never one of them. She never spent hours agonizing over her outfit for her first day at school or checked her hair every five minutes to make sure she looked extra special for whatever boy she thought she might like for seven hours on a Tuesday. More often than not, she rolled out of bed and pulled on clothes in the dim light that seeped in from the windows.
Daisy spent hours inspecting every inch of her skin to see if her new moisturizer was as effective as they said it would be, or if the new twin set she bought looked as good in natural light as it did in the fluorescent ones at the store.
Because of that she was almost always flawless, something George would never, ever admit to her, not even if a gun was pressed to her temple because, hey, not like she can really die twice.
Because of that, she also had a fixation with mirrors. And maybe George shouldn’t be entirely surprised at all the activities that fixation manages to carry over to, but she is, even as she slowly but surely figures out why Daisy keeps trying to reposition them on the bed.
“What are you…” George finally starts, pulling back, her hand still halfway up Daisy’s shirt, and her leg bent at a supremely awkward and slightly painful angle that resulted from Daisy’s latest manipulation of their bodies. The rest of her question is fully formed but it gets stuck on the tip of her tongue as she catches sight of the both of them in the reflection of Daisy’s gold edged mirror that hangs front and center on the wall opposite Daisy’s bed. And then she gets it. “Are you kidding me?”
Daisy follows her gaze straight to the mirror, and gives a relieved sigh, “Finally. Now if you could just move a little to the left.”
She feels Daisy’s hand on her hip, nudging her that way, except George doesn’t let her, instead staying rooted in place. “You’re trying to watch yourself having sex?”
“Oh Georgia, don’t sound so surprised.” The use of her given name makes her cringe. Her hands are, for the time being, completely removed from Daisy’s person, and she’s halfway considering reaching for her shirt and going into her own room, except that would cause awkward tension and just seems like too much trouble at the moment. “I do this with everyone.”
It would be better if she didn’t believe Daisy, but she does, hell she’s even wondering why she didn’t figure that out sooner. “You realize that is wrong on so many levels.”
“Plenty of people do it. Why do you think there are hotel rooms with mirrors on the ceiling?”
George doesn’t want to think about that. She doesn’t care about the pretty pictures that the bodice ripper novels and scripted silver screen sex scenes paint. The fact of the matter is no one really looks all that hot during sex, at least not from the angle of a strategically, but perhaps not well, placed mirror. She would think someone like Daisy would just sit there and count flaws, unless she’s deluded enough to believe that she has none, which is possible with her too.
“Close your eyes if you don’t like it,” Daisy recommends, oh so helpfully, and picks up where they left off without waiting for any kind of permission or sign from George. Her lips taste fruity against George’s own, and Daisy’s well-manicured fingernails skim along her sides, up to her breasts, the thin material of her bra serving as the only barrier from skin slipping along skin, and it sort of kills any desire in her to continue this conversation.
That mirror still goes missing the next morning, and Daisy bitches and complains and generally loses her mind while George sips her coffee and tries not to smile too wide.
---
Title: Sugar Rush
Fandom: NCIS
Characters/Pairings: Abby/Ziva
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 678
Summary:She is allowing herself to be distracted by a candy cane. Or at least the woman eating the candy cane.
Ziva knows these things about Abby:
She is skilled enough to be able to commit murder and manipulate the evidence so much that it would never leave even a hint of a trace back to her, which would worry anyone who didn’t know her very well. She panics any time one of them gets themselves in a bad situation that could lend itself to injury or worse, and she is wary of strangers coming into the mix, especially women (two facts that she has come to understand can be easily linked in one word - Kate). She was never intimidated by Ziva, which is more than she can say for Tony and McGee. Despite all the black and the skulls and the heavy metal, she is the most innocent of all of them, the one who might shatter the next time one of them doesn’t make it home.
Ziva knows all of these things and yet, today, somehow they feel less important in the face of this:
When Abby swirls her tongue around one of the numerous candy canes she’s been using as a festive sugar high to compliment her caffeine high, the red bleeding into pink on her lips, it’s somehow the sexiest thing she’s ever seen.
“And okay you’re really going to have to stop looking at me like you’ve never seen a candy cane before. This is like your third Christmas here; I know that’s not possible.” Abby says, candy finally away from her mouth, her tongue flicking bright red against her teeth. “And it’s distracting.”
That is one thing they both can agree on. It is distracting, much in the same way as Tony’s near constant drumming of his fingers against the desk whenever he’s on hold - both make focusing on the task at hand fairly impossible - except instead of wanting to kill her, which she is wont to do with Tony, she finds herself eager for the taste of Abby’s mouth on her tongue. Rather than make any of that known, however, she simply says, “I have seen a candy cane before, Abby.”
“Then what?” Abby asks, sounding slightly more frustrated. Her candy coated lips turn down at the corners, forming the beginnings of a frown. “Do I have something on my face?”
“We should really focus,” Ziva starts, finding her way out of this conversation. “Gibbs will not be pleased if he comes down here only to find us discussing your choice in Christmas candy.”
Abby steps in front of the computer monitor that had been displaying information from the case they were currently working on, childishly blocking it from Ziva’s view. “No, now you’ve got me worried.”
“Abby, I promise, it is nothing,” she says, absolutely as genuinely as possible. The other woman merely narrows her eyes and crosses her arms over her chest. She is not buying this. “Fine,” Ziva starts again, before she’s got a good lie in mind. That’s probably where this all goes wrong. “It is just, well…how do you say…”
“How do you say what?” Abby asks, slow and with the patience of a kindergarten teacher.
Ziva thinks. And thinks. And usually she is good at thinking on her feet, but today just isn’t her day and what ends up coming out is, “oh, nail it,” right before she kisses her.
Abby’s mouth tastes like peppermint, not shocking like mouthwash or someone who has had a little too much Schnapps, but sweet, comforting in an almost child-like way. She kisses back, like she isn’t entirely stunned by the fact that Ziva just did that, their tongues tangling as Ziva puts one solid hand on Abby’s arm and moves just centimeters closer.
After a moment, Ziva’s the one to pull back, studying Abby, searching out a reaction. All she gets is a raised eyebrow, and a, “First of all, the expression is screw it, not nail it. Nailing it is a couple of bases farther than that was. Second of all, do that again.”
She does.
They employ the rarely used lock on the door not long after.