with a violin and a song to sing (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
origamiflowers) wrote2008-11-02 11:01 pm
origamiflowers) wrote2008-11-02 11:01 pm
fic: NCIS: Aftertaste - Tony, Ziva
Title: Aftertaste
Fandom: NCIS
Characters, Pairings: Tony, Ziva
Genre: Gen
Spoilers: nothing in particular (I think)
Rating: PG13
Length: ~1200 words
Notes: For the![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
sacred_20 challenge. Prompt #11: Sublime. Not exactly shippy, just some of Tony's musings about Ziva. Also, chocolate. And kissing.
*
Ziva has some odd habits, Tony's noticed. She likes to incapacitate first, ask questions later, for one thing, although that's less odd and more amusing. She mixes up like-sounding words sometimes, with results so hilarious as to make him suspicious of intentional mistakes. She plays up - and oh boy can she play it up - her femininity when it suits her, and then transform into a virtually sexless officer of the law in the blink of an eye. (Okay, not ever completely sexless. But maybe that's just Tony.)
Most interestingly of all - at least to him - she keeps a bar of chocolate hidden in the very back of her top desk drawer. There's always one there, no matter how much she eats, all the time; she never seems to run out. He wonders if she has an endless supply stashed somewhere.
When the get desk time, it's spent in a frenzy: making phone call after phone call, hacking some database or another (the sole province of McGeek, really), or making trips to the lab to hear about forensic evidence. But sometimes it's slow. Really slow. And as much as Tony enjoys his job, he appreciates the occasional downtime.
Ziva seems incapable, however. She hates being confined to one place, with nothing to do, restrained from her perpetual forward motion. She paces, she chatters incessantly, she throws around potentially dangerous objects, she speculates - sordidly - about the private lives of celebrities, she challenges the team to random and bizarre games of Truth or Consequences.
So, when she does slow down, Tony watches.
When she thinks no one is looking, she takes out the chocolate bar. She has small, pretty hands; they work to hide the candy bar from prying eyes. She hunches her shoulders, glancing furtively around her. No one is watching now, except Tony, out of the corner of his eye. He is exceptionally good at looking busy - a highly useful trait. Ziva snaps off a small square and places it on her tongue carefully, precisely.
Slowly, slowly, she tastes, her head tilted back.
Her jaw clenches a little, and relaxes. Her thin lips purse. He can see her tongue move in her mouth, leisurely, probing.
His favorite part, though, is the expression on Ziva's face. Her eyes widen slightly and then close - oh so briefly - and on her face is an expression of the purest pleasure. It is as though she has transcended all the anxieties and restlessness of the day, has risen above her cheap desk into a state of sublimity.
That look seems almost foreign on her. He knows Ziva. She's not a happy person, at least not in the ways most people are happy. She is intense, brimming with energy, and even occasionally exuberant, but not really ever happy. Triumph and victory are what please her, not simple, daily activities - like sneaking a bite of chocolate. So he's curious. About a few things.
Her sense of secrecy intrigues him. Tony wants to tell her, sometimes: It's not like you have to hide chocolate around here, you know, but he doesn't.
He doesn't say anything to her about it. That would ruin it, for both of him. He'll admit it - he enjoys knowing her secrets, without feeling the need to spout them off to everyone. These moments belong to him: even the thought that someone like McGeek could share in it was ... nauseating. So he keeps his silence, and guards it fiercely.
He wants to know what it tastes like, this chocolate. Foreign, perhaps. Gourmet. Maybe it's the best chocolate he'll ever have tasted in his entire life.
She doesn't keep her drawer locked. It's a Friday afternoon, and most of their coworkers have moved on to Happy Hour at Louie's, downtown. So when she removes herself for a visit to the ladies' room, he sidles over to her desk, trying to look nonchalant.
Yep, there it is, tucked away behind a box of paperclips. He wonders briefly if she'll notice some missing, and decides he doesn't care. He breaks off some chocolate with his thumb, a big chunk, and sticks it in his mouth before she has a chance to come back.
He nearly chokes. Mother. Of. God, he thinks, and glances at the wrapper. Eighty-five percent cacao, the label reads. Jesus Christ.
The elevator opens, and he wanders away from his desk, trying not to let his mouth pucker in front of her. It takes every ounce of self-control within him to not spit it out onto the new office carpet as they brush past each other.
He sits down in front of his computer. It's not so bad now, as the surface begins to melt and the taste of it spreads.
The chocolate is bitter and earthy. It's a heady taste, one that fills his entire mouth. Not for the faint of heart. None of this surprises him about Ziva's palate, now that he thinks about it. The flavor is all her: sharp and heavy and commanding.
Tony swallows the last of it, but it persists in the corners of his mouth, under his tongue, between his teeth. It won't go away. Maybe that's what she likes about it, the lingering presence of it.
His brain starts wandering. He wonders whether would he taste it if he kissed her. If he explored the crevices of her mouth. If his tongue slid against hers, slow and warm.
If he pressed a palm the side of her face and felt her slender cheekbone beneath his thumb. If she would gasp as he bit her bottom lip.
If she would have that same look on her face -
Tony's breathing becomes heavy. He rubs his eyes, runs a hand through his hair, stares at his computer screen. He doesn't notice Ziva looking at him with curiosity.
* * *
Monday afternoon, he finds it in the back of his drawer. A chocolate bar, wrapped in a note.
Her handwriting is superbly messy. It reads:
Here is one for you. Do not steal mine again. And underneath, smaller: Postscript. I hope you enjoy it. Ziva. And some scribble that's probably Hebrew. Something insulting, no doubt.
Tony grins. It's so Ziva, so abrupt and straightforward.
He is slapped by a blue folder as Gibbs strolls by. "Finished that report, DiNozzo?" Their Fearless Leader doesn't wait for an answer before walking away. He's made his point.
"Yeah, boss," Tony mutters at Gibbs's back. "I'll get on that, pronto."
As he turns back to his desk, he catches Ziva's eye, and they both pause. Whatever incredibly dumb thing he is about to say dies on his lips. Her eyes are dark and serious, her lips parted moistly, ever so slightly, and Tony swallows, his mouth suddenly dry. His tongue darts out over his lips.
He watches her mouth open, as though she's got something to say and then she seems to rethink it, contents herself with returning to her paperwork. Her mouth curls at one corner.
*
Fandom: NCIS
Characters, Pairings: Tony, Ziva
Genre: Gen
Spoilers: nothing in particular (I think)
Rating: PG13
Length: ~1200 words
Notes: For the
sacred_20 challenge. Prompt #11: Sublime. Not exactly shippy, just some of Tony's musings about Ziva. Also, chocolate. And kissing.*
Ziva has some odd habits, Tony's noticed. She likes to incapacitate first, ask questions later, for one thing, although that's less odd and more amusing. She mixes up like-sounding words sometimes, with results so hilarious as to make him suspicious of intentional mistakes. She plays up - and oh boy can she play it up - her femininity when it suits her, and then transform into a virtually sexless officer of the law in the blink of an eye. (Okay, not ever completely sexless. But maybe that's just Tony.)
Most interestingly of all - at least to him - she keeps a bar of chocolate hidden in the very back of her top desk drawer. There's always one there, no matter how much she eats, all the time; she never seems to run out. He wonders if she has an endless supply stashed somewhere.
When the get desk time, it's spent in a frenzy: making phone call after phone call, hacking some database or another (the sole province of McGeek, really), or making trips to the lab to hear about forensic evidence. But sometimes it's slow. Really slow. And as much as Tony enjoys his job, he appreciates the occasional downtime.
Ziva seems incapable, however. She hates being confined to one place, with nothing to do, restrained from her perpetual forward motion. She paces, she chatters incessantly, she throws around potentially dangerous objects, she speculates - sordidly - about the private lives of celebrities, she challenges the team to random and bizarre games of Truth or Consequences.
So, when she does slow down, Tony watches.
When she thinks no one is looking, she takes out the chocolate bar. She has small, pretty hands; they work to hide the candy bar from prying eyes. She hunches her shoulders, glancing furtively around her. No one is watching now, except Tony, out of the corner of his eye. He is exceptionally good at looking busy - a highly useful trait. Ziva snaps off a small square and places it on her tongue carefully, precisely.
Slowly, slowly, she tastes, her head tilted back.
Her jaw clenches a little, and relaxes. Her thin lips purse. He can see her tongue move in her mouth, leisurely, probing.
His favorite part, though, is the expression on Ziva's face. Her eyes widen slightly and then close - oh so briefly - and on her face is an expression of the purest pleasure. It is as though she has transcended all the anxieties and restlessness of the day, has risen above her cheap desk into a state of sublimity.
That look seems almost foreign on her. He knows Ziva. She's not a happy person, at least not in the ways most people are happy. She is intense, brimming with energy, and even occasionally exuberant, but not really ever happy. Triumph and victory are what please her, not simple, daily activities - like sneaking a bite of chocolate. So he's curious. About a few things.
Her sense of secrecy intrigues him. Tony wants to tell her, sometimes: It's not like you have to hide chocolate around here, you know, but he doesn't.
He doesn't say anything to her about it. That would ruin it, for both of him. He'll admit it - he enjoys knowing her secrets, without feeling the need to spout them off to everyone. These moments belong to him: even the thought that someone like McGeek could share in it was ... nauseating. So he keeps his silence, and guards it fiercely.
He wants to know what it tastes like, this chocolate. Foreign, perhaps. Gourmet. Maybe it's the best chocolate he'll ever have tasted in his entire life.
She doesn't keep her drawer locked. It's a Friday afternoon, and most of their coworkers have moved on to Happy Hour at Louie's, downtown. So when she removes herself for a visit to the ladies' room, he sidles over to her desk, trying to look nonchalant.
Yep, there it is, tucked away behind a box of paperclips. He wonders briefly if she'll notice some missing, and decides he doesn't care. He breaks off some chocolate with his thumb, a big chunk, and sticks it in his mouth before she has a chance to come back.
He nearly chokes. Mother. Of. God, he thinks, and glances at the wrapper. Eighty-five percent cacao, the label reads. Jesus Christ.
The elevator opens, and he wanders away from his desk, trying not to let his mouth pucker in front of her. It takes every ounce of self-control within him to not spit it out onto the new office carpet as they brush past each other.
He sits down in front of his computer. It's not so bad now, as the surface begins to melt and the taste of it spreads.
The chocolate is bitter and earthy. It's a heady taste, one that fills his entire mouth. Not for the faint of heart. None of this surprises him about Ziva's palate, now that he thinks about it. The flavor is all her: sharp and heavy and commanding.
Tony swallows the last of it, but it persists in the corners of his mouth, under his tongue, between his teeth. It won't go away. Maybe that's what she likes about it, the lingering presence of it.
His brain starts wandering. He wonders whether would he taste it if he kissed her. If he explored the crevices of her mouth. If his tongue slid against hers, slow and warm.
If he pressed a palm the side of her face and felt her slender cheekbone beneath his thumb. If she would gasp as he bit her bottom lip.
If she would have that same look on her face -
Tony's breathing becomes heavy. He rubs his eyes, runs a hand through his hair, stares at his computer screen. He doesn't notice Ziva looking at him with curiosity.
* * *
Monday afternoon, he finds it in the back of his drawer. A chocolate bar, wrapped in a note.
Her handwriting is superbly messy. It reads:
Here is one for you. Do not steal mine again. And underneath, smaller: Postscript. I hope you enjoy it. Ziva. And some scribble that's probably Hebrew. Something insulting, no doubt.
Tony grins. It's so Ziva, so abrupt and straightforward.
He is slapped by a blue folder as Gibbs strolls by. "Finished that report, DiNozzo?" Their Fearless Leader doesn't wait for an answer before walking away. He's made his point.
"Yeah, boss," Tony mutters at Gibbs's back. "I'll get on that, pronto."
As he turns back to his desk, he catches Ziva's eye, and they both pause. Whatever incredibly dumb thing he is about to say dies on his lips. Her eyes are dark and serious, her lips parted moistly, ever so slightly, and Tony swallows, his mouth suddenly dry. His tongue darts out over his lips.
He watches her mouth open, as though she's got something to say and then she seems to rethink it, contents herself with returning to her paperwork. Her mouth curls at one corner.
*