A/N: It's not like I haven't written crazy things before for this fandom. (See: Bloodlust.) But still, putting Tony and Ziva in the Victorian Era never seemed like something within the realm of possibility, at least not with me at the helm. I have been nervous to embark upon such a crazy mission. And yet, over the past few months, the idea never really did go away – so I suppose indulging it was simply inevitable.

I don't entirely know how things are going to unfold, at this point. I don't know how long it will be. I don't know if I'll stick with it, because I've been known to lose interest in my own stories. But for now, it is here, and I am trying it out, and we'll see how this goes.

A note about the title—with this story still very much in its infancy, coming up with a title is hard. But I chose this one because this story will feature plenty of twisted games – scandals, fortune hunting, crossed wires, forbidden relationships, the whole shebang. So for now, it will do. But I may change it at a later time, as the story develops, if a better idea comes to mind.

These Twisted Games We Play
By: Zayz

Chapter I
No. 4 Upper Belgrave Street

It is with relief and enormous trepidation that Anthony DiNozzo Jr. steps out of the carriage, on the heels of his father and namesake, and gazes up at No. 8 Bedford Street, his fourth residence in two years.

The April morning is bright and cool; a biting wind blows by, and Tony shivers slightly in his suit coat, puts a hand to his hat to keep it from flying off. He surveys the street – the row of tall, neat white houses, all stacked in a line behind lawns just beginning to come into bloom, Bedford Square visible at the end of the road. This is by far Senior's prettiest choice of settlement, which immediately makes Tony suspicious.

This is a respectable house on a respectable street – with a respectable rent, no doubt. It is the sort of place that Senior has always dreamed of settling down comfortably in for the rest of his days. To be here now, when all previous conversation about real estate had indicated a move towards the East End, most likely suggests that this time, Senior is serious about forcing Junior to find a wealthy bride. He must do it, or the two face eviction, and yet another move.

Tony sighs at the thought, and re-adjusts his hat. He watches as Senior congenially finishes up his conversation with the driver, and discreetly hands over a generous tip that of course he cannot afford. Senior then pretends to be surprised and delighted when the grateful driver offers to unload the bags and bring them upstairs. When the driver is scurrying into No. 8 with two suitcases in hand, Senior winks at his son, beaming. He walks over and throws his arm around Tony's shoulder, obviously pleased with himself.

"Told you I'd found a good one," he remarks. "We should be happy here."

"Happy so long as your new landlord friend forgives our meager rent offerings," Tony mutters.

Yet Senior's mood is so buoyant, beholding No. 8 Bedford Street, that he merely chuckles. "Have some faith, Junior. Besides, I have the inkling that our worries may soon come to an end. The ladies in this part of town are rumored to be very beautiful."

He winks again, and Tony groans. His inkling had indeed been proven correct; beautiful and wealthy are synonymous terms in Senior's vocabulary, as adventures in other parts of England have clearly and starkly proven. As usual, it is up to Tony and his inherited DiNozzo charm to rescue the two of them from the brink of financial ruin.

Somehow, Tony forces a smile. "Yes, of course, father," he says, as the driver returns to the car and retrieves the last two suitcases. "I presume you have already made the necessary introductions?"

"All but one," says Senior. "We are visiting Mr. Eli David for tea at four."

"David. That is a Jewish name," remarks Tony. "And where, pray tell, does Mr. Eli David reside?"

"Number Four, Upper Belgrave Street," Senior proudly proclaims, a mad gleam in his vivid, clear eyes. "I am told that he has two marriageable daughters as well."

The driver returns from the house and briefly distracts Senior from his scheming, but Tony understands exactly what must be done. If he is being taken along for this introduction, then Senior has definitely set his sights on Mr. Eli David's daughters – may God have mercy on their souls.

Mr. Eli David, then, that Tony has to thank for this move to Bedford Street, he muses. He and Senior are aiming to impress him, and his Belgrave Street sensibilities. It is a bold move, especially in his current financial state – but if anyone is capable of engineering it and following through, it is Senior. In his immaculate coat, his brand-new hat, and his fashionable walking stick, Senior looks as pompous and wealthy as the rest of them; and with his easy manners, his sharp, edgy wit, he makes up for the financial truth when it is inevitably revealed. Admittedly, he plays the game better than its creators.

Senior has arranged for furniture to be brought up from their old residence later in the evening. For the time being, they go inside to unpack their bags, and prepare for tea with Mr. Eli David.

At four o'clock sharp, Senior's new driver friend halts the carriage in front of No. 4 Upper Belgrave Street.

Bedford Street, too, features neat white houses stacked in a ruthlessly straight line, the area is quiet, clean and exclusive, peppered with trees and maintained by immaculately-dressed people. It is elegant in an understated way; it exudes discreet grandeur, a casual affluence that other streets in London lack.

Tony and Senior are greeted at the door by a smartly-dressed butler, who had been expecting them. He shows the two into the house, and seats them in the parlor, where they are told that Mr. David will join them shortly.

Mr. Eli David is evidently a man of good taste and comfortable income. The fireplace is large and imposing, already lit with a small, cheerful fire. The rug is rich and intricately decorated; it was most likely made in India, or elsewhere in the Orient. The piano in the corner is large and imposing, perfectly polished, with perfect ivory keys. The furniture is intricately detailed and made of a dark, handsome oak. Fine porcelain vases adorn the tables, some of them occupied by freshly-picked, carefully arranged flowers, pink and yellow and white. The heavy maroon curtains are pulled back to reveal the quiet street, and daylight streams in, casting a honey glow upon the room.

Senior and Tony wait for several silent, heavy minutes – until, presently, Mr. David enters the room in his pristine suit, cut in the same modern style as Senior's. Tony and Senior stand up immediately to greet Mr. David, but he genially waves his hand and gestures for them to sit.

"Mr. DiNozzo – it is a pleasure," says Mr. David, smiling at the two of them.

"The pleasure is all ours," Senior assures him, nodding his head graciously. "May I introduce my son, Mr. Anthony DiNozzo Junior?"

This is his cue. Tony puts on his most dazzling smile, and stood up to shake Mr. David's hand. His grip is firm, matching Tony's. "A pleasure," Mr. David repeats.

The conversation flows predictably from there – where they have moved (Senior gives the address with flourish), how long they have been there (not long, Senior says, failing to mention that his definition of "not long" is merely six hours), and who else they have met in the neighborhood (at which point Senior shamelessly name-drops every influential London resident he can think of). Tony's attention drifts, sometimes trying to mentally calculate how much it cost to furnish this parlor, sometimes trying to count the threads on the end of the rug beneath his feet. He has, by now, perfected the art of disguising his glazed eyes with a look of polite interest; the talent is a necessity, when Senior's main occupation besides his textile business is flattering the upper echelons of every society he inhabits.

After a half hour of dull discussion, the entrance of a young woman into the parlor mercifully interrupts the proceedings – she comes in like a hurricane, apparently unconcerned about the fact that there is company in the house, and she announces, "Father, Ziva and I are going to call on Abigail tonight for dinner, and we simply must have the carriage for it."

Eli David's expression – before, pleasant and courteous – freezes upon sight of the young woman, tension evident in his tightly closed jaw. The woman is confused at first, then notices Tony and Senior sitting across from her father. She beams radiantly at them, and offers a curtsey. "Good afternoon," she says, batting her eyelashes at them.

"May I present to you my youngest daughter, Talia," Eli manages.

Senior and Tony rise to their feet and nod politely towards her. Talia smiles prettily, her eyes bright with mischief and excitement. She is young, no older than eighteen, and she is wearing a canary-yellow floral gown, with long sleeves, a high neck, and a full skirt. Her figure is small and slim, with delicate shoulders and a tiny waist. Her complexion is a light caramel color beneath a thick layer of white powder, and she has a sweet, heart-shaped face, surrounded by a cascade of rich brown curls. There is great energy and cheekiness about her, as she stands in the entrance of the room, reveling in the awkward silence she has inspired.

He waits a beat, then Eli asks, "Where is Ziva?"

"I am here," a voice answers from down the hall. Another woman joins Talia in the entrance and puts her hand on Talia's shoulder. This woman is a little older, perhaps twenty, with the same complexion and brown curls. She wears a blue dress in the same style as Talia's, but hers is cut lower in the neck, and she wears pearls in her ears. Where Talia is so obviously youthful and spirited, this woman has a more careful, refined air about her; her smile is tighter as she surveys the room, as though she is silently apologizing for the vigor of the younger girl.

"May I also introduce to you my older daughter, Ziva," says Eli, relaxing slightly as he beholds her calm hand on Talia's shoulder.

Senior and Tony nod politely at her as well, and Ziva offers a curtsey – lower and more sustained than Talia's.

"We apologize for the intrusion," says Ziva, smiling sweetly. She moves her hand from Talia's shoulder to the small of her back, and gently pushes her sister out of the parlor, taking care to close the door behind them.

"I, too, must apologize for my daughters," says Eli, strained.

But Senior only chuckles and says, "Not at all, not at all. Such beautiful women are always a welcome interruption."

And indeed, they were. Tony has seen many sophisticated, well-dressed society women, yet none have so instantly captured his attention the way these two have – Talia, with her cheeky grin and blatant disregard for propriety, and Ziva, beautiful and careful, somehow enigmatic. Her manners were the manners of any wealthy young woman, yet her swift handling of her sister and her long curtsey, suggest that Ziva, too, has considerable spirit beneath her elegant exterior. Though she was apologetic on behalf of Talia, she did not fear the parlor, its guests, or her father's reaction. She handled the situation the way the mistress of the house would – decisively, politely, but firmly – despite her limited years. And she is the more beautiful of the two, with her round face and large, lovely brown eyes; she is exotic in a way that London women simply are not.

If Senior has his way, Tony will most likely marry one of the two women within six months time.

For the rest of their visit, Tony busies himself with his tea and his thoughts about the two David sisters, wondering which of them he will have to make his bride.

Night has fallen by the time Senior has his driver friend take the two Anthony DiNozzos back to Bedford Street. Tony is grateful for it; the counting of the stars is an excellent distraction, as Senior begins his ramble about the benefits and drawbacks of the David sisters, despite having met them for no more than two minutes.

When the pair reach Bedford Street, Tony tunes into his father's monologue long enough to discern that either sister is a worthy bride – or, rather, a worthy conduit to her father's money – but he, Senior, would prefer if Tony married the older one. Ziva. She, at least, seems to have some sense of decorum. She would know better than to barge into the parlor during a house call.

Tony merely sighs, bids his father good-night, and retires to his room for the night. As he blows out the candle and settles in beneath the sheets, he is already sorry for the David sisters, and the father-in-law they might soon receive. He is sorry, because already, he has the inkling that he will genuinely like them – because such pretty, lively creatures deserve better than fortune-hunters like the DiNozzos.

A/N: Any and all feedback is enormously appreciated.