Title: Lost in A Daydream
Pairing: McGee/Ziva UST
Rating: PG-13, for one disturbing image
Genre: Het
Cat: Angst, UST (is that a category?), Drama, maybe a tiny bit of Character Study
Spoilers: Super minor one for Iced. Twilight if you want to analyze things.
Warnings: One violent image.
Summary: He wants to tell her, but he remains quiet.
Author's Note: Originally written for the Poetry Challenge on NFA, but I decided not to enter (because I had a few other things entered already). More poetic prose than actual poetry poetry, but hey. Inspired by KayleighBough, who is amazing.
Her hair looks really good today. She straightened it. Shiny. Brushes her shoulder as she leans over her desk, writing her case report, lips pursed in concentration, eyes narrowed in confusion.
What he wouldn't give to walk over there, wrap his arms around her, curling her body into his and . . . claiming her. Like calling shotgun. I called her first. She's mine.
She raises her head, eyes like a hawk, ears . . . probably pricked up like a dog's. Mossad training. Women's intuition? She can probably smell him watching her. Taste him, too. Salty; the sweat running down the sides of his crisp dress shirt.
His eyes focus too quickly on his monitor and he feels dizzy, the coding blurring in front of him. Too close. She would . . . she would chew him up and spit him out and leave him a regurgitated mess in front of Gibbs' desk, or Tony's, someone more . . . masculine than he. No. Macho. She said it herself. They're tough guys. Not him.
Her lips shape into a pout, then a frown. She could have sworn . . . she was being watched. Her skin tingles. Her stomach churns, but pleasantly. Like shooting rounds off at a range - controlled danger. It thrills her. But then . . . there is nothing.
He breathes in. Out. In. Out. Out? Tries not to choke as he realizes he's forgotten how to do it properly. How poetic. She . . . didn't notice. Maybe. So hard to tell with her. He can read her fairly well, but he's so damn distracted right now, she could be naked and he wouldn't notice.
No. He would. He definitely would.
She asks him a question. Simple. Computer stuff. He stands and the next three seconds are in slow motion, as he steps out in front of his desk and catches the best possible view of the bullet penetrating her forehead, then her chair rolling back, slamming against the back of her cubicle, and he just stares, as the blood seeps down her face . . .
No. Just thoughts. Horrible, horrible thoughts. What ifs. Worst case scenarios, and all he can think is . . .
I never told her. I never told her how beautiful I think she is.
So trivial. Beauty. God. But he only thinks that because he isn't willing to let his heart speak. He wouldn't know what to say. For being an author, he sure is awful with words.
"McGee? Is something wrong?"
His head spins. It's like a circus funhouse in here right now, all distorted images and hysterical laughter - Tony on his left, his teeth narrowed in pointy fangs as he mocks him ("Little McGoo's in love. Too bad you're not man enough for her.") and then he's more handsome than ever, and sweeping her in his arms, and kissing her, and they're kissing, and he just won't stop kissing her . . .
He looks up. She's standing at his side, worry written on her face. He smiles up at her. She is so beautiful.
"I'm okay. Guess I just got lost in my thoughts."
fin
