Of the Desert
by channelD
written as: an NFAHaiti Relief auction ficlet.
rating: K plus
characters: Ziva
genre: drama
prompt: desert, meditation
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disclaimer: I still own nothing of NCIS. The Warmth of the Sun is written, I believe, by Brian Wilson.
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What good is the dawn
That grows into day
The sunset at night
Or living this way
For I have the warmth of the sun
Within me at night…
Ziva sighed, smiled contentedly, and her mind pulled up the Russian translation.
Что хорошего в рассвет
Который растет в день
Закат на ночь
Или живущие таким образом,
Ибо я тепло солнца
Во мне по ночам…
It didn't take much prompting to turn her mind in this direction. Tony and Tim would laugh if they ever knew that she listened to Beach Boys music. She knew that it didn't seem to match her personality, this old-fashioned music of far-away California, beaches, hot rods, surfing, and girl-chasing. It was one of a couple dozen little secrets that she had. This song, The Warmth of the Sun, was among her favorites. She knew the translations of it in at least four languages.
The sun's warmth was glorious to her. Until she had started to travel from her native Israel, where winters were mild and summers were not, she had never really appreciated warmth. It wasn't until the Mossad sent her to America that she had invested in a truly warm coat. (Now she owned three.)
Warmth matters, to all mammals. Even many of the so-called 'cold-blooded' animals, like snakes, seek out the sun's warmth. The desert was like a metaphor for a planet dependent on the sun: by day it would absorb the heat and its fine sands and small scrub plants would fire it back at whoever dared venture into it. It was as if the desert wanted to be kind to its travelers, and share what it had clutched at, but returned the heat in too enthusiastic a way. And then at night, with little to hold the heat it, it sent it back into the sky…leaving a cold expanse to wait to be reheated the next day.
Well, not very cold by Washington standards…but cold, nonetheless.
There was a fable in that. Someone should write it.
To not be warm meant to be sluggish; not equipped with the reflexes one needed in her line of work. Warmth hopped and jumped and ran; cold flowed like a thick, heavy liquid. Ziva rarely complained about the DC winter weather (which was often worse when one traveled inland, say, into the Virginia forests and mountains). She remembered her mother saying that one should not complain too much about the weather, for weather was not a personal thing. For another thing, her Mossad training had taught her to tune out external influences, like weather. Cold did not kill, unless you did not dress for it. An enemy could kill much more quickly.
It wasn't often that she could take time to dream of her beloved Israel, and its warmth. Washington had a long summer, longer than, say, New York City did, but it could never match the heat of—
"Hey! Lady! Getting a cramp here!"
Startled from her thoughts, Ziva looked down at the handcuffed suspect, on whose back she sat. "Oh. I am sorry. Did you have to be somewhere?" she asked sweetly.
He struggled and cursed. "Aw…Just take me to Holding, or wherever, would ya? What's so fascinating out that window, anyway?"
She looked out the old warehouse window at the large falling snowflakes. "A desert." And surfers and hot rods and endless summer…
"A desert?! You're nuts!"
"No. Just warm." She stood up and yanked the suspect to his feet. "Let us go."
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