Disclaimer: Notsomuch on the owning.
Spoilers: Uh, Shalom and Singled Out, I suppose. With the caveat that Moussad wasn't photographing piano lessons. And assuming that Faking It has not yet occurred, because they screwed me with that one. Are people anal about canon in this fandom?
Summary: One-shot. You can manage 1000 words of office banter without my summary.
He's on the phone with her again. "Yeah…uh-huh…definitely…see you tonight." He hangs up and sighs as he looks at the phone in its cradle. I watch him, waiting. In a few seconds he's going to look up at me and waggle his eyebrows as he makes a suggestive comment. Five, four, three…he makes a note on a piece of paper…two, one. Nothing.
I purse my lips, forcing myself not to speak. I give him another five seconds. He goes back to whatever he was doing on his computer before she called. That damn mystery woman. She probably isn't even real. I have to say something and say it soon or I'll lose the chance to obtain something to support that. Anything. I face my own computer as I ask, "So…seeing your secret girlfriend again tonight?"
He responds without looking at me, "Do you have a problem with secrets all of a sudden, Zee-vah?"
"No. I'm merely curious." My eyes flick back and forth from my computer screen to him. He still isn't looking at me. "I am an investigator after all."
"Oh, so you've stopped calling yourself a spy?" The words have a bitter edge. He doesn't tease me like he used to; now he tries to make the words hurt. Or I think that's what he's trying to do. Except when he forgets and everything goes back to normal for a few minutes. Figuring out his current perspective on me is like understanding English idioms; I'll never quite get it like a native does. I suppose he's trying to tell me, in his own bizarre language, that things have changed on both sides. And that he blames me for it.
I glare at him, wanting to shout that it isn't entirely my fault. It's not like I asked to be photographed with him. If he wants to blame someone, he should blame my father. I don't think he believed me when I told him that we couldn't see each other anymore because Moussad would use it against us, against NCIS if the necessity arose. He actually had the gall to imply that it had to do with Gibbs. He would pick the one thing I didn't have the option of explaining.
Now we're left with this – one-sided glaring over an immeasurable distance of five meters.
"Maybe she's got something wrong with her."
I turn to look at McGee. I don't know how much the Probie has figured out, but lately McGee's developed a knack for joining the non-versation fortuitously.
"And what is that supposed to mean, Probie?" He still has that acid in his voice.
"Well, maybe she's ugly…"
He scoffs.
"Or maybe she's personally offensive."
"You think she smells, McGee?" I laugh, drawing a scowl from across the way.
McGee continues, "That's not what I meant, but maybe. I was just thinking that maybe she's got some baggage that wouldn't go over well in present company. Like…" McGee shifts uncomfortably. "Well, what if it turns out she's, like, an anti-Semite or something?"
Ouch. McGee has no idea what he's just done. It's an attack on multiple fronts and it gets an immediate reaction out of him. He walks to McGee's desk with tension in his gait. He speaks softly, but his voice carries over to me. "Do you honestly think my standards are that low, Probie?"
McGee shakes his head, cowed. "Sorry, Tony. I, uh, I didn't mean anything. I just, well, you have to admit you've been pretty tight lipped about whoever you're seeing."
"Maybe I've turned over a new leaf, Probie. The new DiNozzo." He struts back to his desk, pointedly ignoring me as he sits and puts his feet up. "Respectful, no more kissing and telling."
McGee tries to repress a snort. "Uh-huh."
"What?" He speaks with that incredulous tone that I wish he hadn't stopped using with me.
"Well, your record is kind of working against you there."
His eyes narrow. "You think I can't keep a secret, Probie?" His feet swing to the floor as he leans toward McGee. "You have no idea."
"You know, it wouldn't be that hard to simply introduce her to us," I interject. He turns, as if he's surprised to see me. I wonder if he'd forgotten I was even there. I stand and start walking toward his desk, miming shaking hands with someone as I imitate his voice, "McGee, Ziva, meet random bimbo. Random bimbo, my partners Tim and Ziva." I perch on the edge of his desk, folding my arms across my chest as I look down at him. "Simple, yes?"
He leans forward in his seat and gives me one of his half-smiles, the one that curls the corners of his mouth but never makes it to his eyes. "You seem awfully eager to meet this girl. Jealous?"
Before I can shoot myself in the foot with an inappropriately indignant reply, McGee inadvertently saves me again. "She's got a point, Tony. Usually we can't get you to shut up about your girlfriends, but getting you to talk about this new one is like pulling teeth."
I nod in agreement. "I just happen to find it odd that you haven't tried to hoist her on us yet. You're usually so open about sharing your conquests."
"It's 'foist,' Zee-vah," he corrects, rising slowly from his chair. Placing his palms flat on his desk he leans close. He's looking down at me now. His breath is warm on my cheek as he whispers, "Would you prefer I be more open about everything from now on?"
I hold my ground, wondering how long this impromptu staring contest is going to last. I refuse to retreat from such an obviously empty threat. If he says anything now McGee will hear, and no matter how much threatening either of us do, McGee won't be able to stop himself from telling Abby. Then it would only be a matter of time. I call his bluff. "You wouldn't," I say decisively, finally severing the eye contact.
McGee is trying to watch us inconspicuously, glancing casually in our direction every few seconds. I stand and move quietly back to my own desk. "He'll tell us when he's ready, McGee."
"Give it up, Ziva." He doesn't overemphasize my name to tell me he's being serious. He really isn't going to tell us about whoever this woman is.
Gibbs passes between our desks before I can reply. "Grab your gear. We're headed to Quantico."
He's ready before I am and he waits for me. We don't speak as we follow Gibbs and McGee to the elevator. We're silent as we walk to the car. We don't say a word to each other until we get to the scene, and then we talk only about the case. It's not that I want him to say something meaningful to me specifically. I just wish he'd talk about this woman who has him so tongue-tied.