Disclaimer; I do not own NCIS, or any of the characters, nor am I being paid a plug nickel for any of this. Its just stuff I've thought up. The only thing I own is this piece of FanFic. So, there.
Anti-Ziva Drivel for Ziva Haters everywhere! Tony POV- I've never done first-person POV, so bear with me. LOL
Assignment Ziva; or The Assignment From Hell
I could already tell it was not going to be a good day. First, the drive-through lane at McDonalds snaked all the way around the building and out into the street. I was at the end of the line. Usually, there's some cute young thing at the window to smile at me and hand me my food. I can wink at her, chit-chat, maybe ask her out. This time, though, the person who handed me my breakfast was a toothless old man with wiry grey hair growing out his ears and nose. Makes the appetite disappear really fast, and on top of it all, my Egg McMuffin was missing the egg and stone cold. I ate it anyway, and now it's a big ball of congealed grease in my stomach. I want to go home.
I got into work and things were about the same as any other day. Probie was working on something on his computer, Gibbs was cranky and Ziva as usual, was late. Since I had not finished up my report from yesterday because I'd been too busy staring at the blonde bombshell from downstairs, I was busy working on it today. Just as I hit 'print', Gibbs walked over to my desk with that calculating stare he always has when he's about to tell me something that he knows is either going to disappoint me, or piss me off. Gibbs has a way of doing that. I try not to show my reactions, but sometimes my face is like an open book. I'm sure it was this morning, when Gibbs dropped his news on my desk.
"I want you and Ziva to go undercover as married agents," he began. I felt my stomach drop. I swear that Egg McMuffin bounced.
Me and Ziva? Paired as married? Oh, this can't be good!
I had to remain cool. I am, after all, an excellent agent!
"Okay, boss; whatever you say," I heard myself croak out.
NO! That's not what I was thinking! What I was thinking was,
"You have got to be out of your mind you sadistic idiot, if you think I'm going to spend one moment even pretending to be married to her!"
By the look on Gibbs' face, it was a good thing I didn't voice my thoughts. He wasn't finished and sat down on a corner of my desk; I was afraid he'd spill his coffee all over the latest edition of Hot Rod magazine I have on my desk. Women in thongs have no connection whatsoever to selling cars, but they look damn good leaning on the hood!
"Oh, sorry sir; what was that?" Damn; I missed what Gibbs was saying, something about a hotel room; Ow. Yes; I deserved that head slap.
"You and Ziva will share a hotel room and for all outward appearances, be a husband and wife very much in love," he repeated, and gave me a slip of paper.
On it were two names: Jean-Paul, and Sofia. I looked up at my boss, and he was actually smiling. He knew I would rather have a root canal then have to spend any time with Ziva.
"This ought to be fun," I said out loud. Inside, I couldn't help but think that being cooped up in a hotel room with Lizzie Borden would be a hell of a lot more exciting.
Oh, don't get me wrong. I have to give Ziva a partial credit for trying. She's not a master of the English language, and she's always flubbing simple clichés, and she's not yet gotten angry at me for correcting her. But she's cold. She must have ice water in her veins. She tries to give me hell; to banter with me the way Kate did. But it's not the same. Somehow, getting put down by Kate was a lot more fun than when Ziva does it. Maybe because Ziva just isn't family like Kate was. If I have to go on this assignment, I'd rather have Kate; at least she pretended to understand my sick humour. And she had a nice name. Kate Todd. Better than Ziva David. And, what was it with the pronunciation! It's pronounced Day-vid; not this Dah-Veed. Geez. So call me anal.
Ziva finally walked through the door, and gave me another one of her smug looks. It was all I could do not to stick out my foot and trip her on her way past my desk. Little bitch; she thinks she's all that and a bag of chips, when in reality; she has fit in about as well as a shark in a goldfish bowl.
"Morning, Ziva," I had to be friendly; we were fixing to be very close on this assignment. My stomach pitched and rolled at the thought. Ziva just smirked at me.
"Are you really a bitch, or do you have to practice?" I thought, wishing I was brave enough to actually say it; but Gibbs was still within earshot.
"Hello, Tony," she said, and I think I actually saw fangs.
"Maybe I should pack garlic and a wooden stake," I thought. She's just way too cool and too aloof to be part of our team. What were they thinking when they hired her?
Trouble is; they probably weren't thinking. Did it ever occur to the morons in charge that maybe it would be a little un-nerving working around a former member of the Moussad, who makes secret calls on her cell phone when she thinks nobody's looking? I'm sure she's not calling her hairdresser. I wonder if her reflection ever shows up in a mirror.
"So, Tony," she began, her voice sounding just a hair under sinister; "did Gibbs tell you?" I turned around, trying to act nonchalant.
"About you and I; about posing as married agents?" I asked; she nodded.
"Yep;" that's all I could say. I had to close my mouth before something nasty was said. Something like,
"I'd rather be Manson's cell-mate than in a hotel room with you," Ooooh! Good one! Ziva gave me another one of her looks she thinks are so intimidating.
They always say children and animals are the best judge of a person's character, but I rely on Abby. She's our resident personality meter. She can tell if a person's intentions are good or bad before they even open their mouths. Abby's perception of Ziva is bad; it's in the toilet. Hell, in Abby's mind, our new agent is the enemy's enemy. Ziva's an interloper; a desecrater of all things sacred. As far as Abby's concerned, Ziva's committed an unforgivable sin by sitting at Kate's desk and assuming everyone is all right with it. I'm waiting for a cat-fight. All my money's on Abby.
Damn, I hate the thought of being with this woman for even five minutes. She thinks she's going to drive my car, too! That's a laugh. I'd have to be dead before I let that happen. I can't wait until this assignment's over. My email-alert dings. I open the email from Abby, and have to smother a laugh. It's a picture of Ziva, but quick-thinking Abby has drawn devil horns and a goatee on the smug chick's face. Now, she looks like a cross between Satan and Charlie Chaplin. Nice; very nice! I scroll down, and see the text Abby has written:
"Dear Tony, I'm sorry to hear about your assignment from Hell. Love, Abby."
I'm going to print that and frame it.