It's not as morbid as it sounds or as I'd intended it to be. And I guess it's mostly just friendship. And I mention a lot of food. I guess I was hungry. Gimme a break!
Disclaimer: Yeah, we're still waitin' on Santa and the lawyers . . .
She almost died today.
He thinks this as he stands at the cafe condiments counter and stirs sugar into his coffee and goes about his daily business.
Those freshly baked scones smell utterly fantastic, the prominent display of each item's calories really is not aiding his conscience, and she almost died today.
He burns his tongue when he tries to sip his coffee.
...
She almost died today.
He gives in to his nagging conscience with the vague Israeli accent and hands off the caloric equivalent of a nuclear bomb to his partner as he enters the squad room.
She is wearing a large gray sweatshirt that smells like Old Spice and sawdust. Her hair tangles in dark, wet curls. She looks at him questioningly as she accepts her coffee and the scone.
"What is this for?"
Because you almost died today, he thinks.
"For you," he says simply, because there have been more than enough near-death experiences for the day.
She offers to share, and he abandons his conscientious martyrdom in favor of being fed pieces of a buttery pastry as his partner laughs.
Her fingers brush against his lips as she obligingly drops another chunk of warm scone into his waiting mouth, and he thinks that she almost died today.
The scone smells better than it tastes.
...
She almost died today.
He scoffs at McGee's groundless statement that the prequel Star Wars movies are better than the originals, deals head-slaps when vocal logic cannot dissuade the man and his faulty movie criticism, and thinks that she almost died today.
She rolls her eyes, laughs when Gibbs rebukes him physically for his presumptuous use of such a sacred rite as the headslap, and voices that she likes the ones with the good-looking man who plays Han Solo.
Tony tells her she is hopeless, but without any real vehemence, because she almost died today. And because Harrison Ford really cannot be criticized.
...
She almost died today.
He groans when Gibbs utilizes his baseball lingo to introduce their second case of the day. A 'double-header.' He hopes the second game won't be as trying as the first was.
There's another body, a man who looks nothing like Ziva, but he still finds himself searching for excuses to stick close. She cocks her head at him like she knows what he's thinking, and he catches her off-guard long enough to snap a picture of her - eyes narrowed suspiciously, lower lip caught behind her two front teeth.
She swats him away half-heartedly, smiles, and he wonders how in the world he would function if the 'almost' was removed from the equation.
...
She almost died today.
They sit at their desks and stare at computer screens, except his eyes keep straying across the room to study her face - the pursed lips, the shadows of her eyelashes on her cheekbones - because, damn it, she almost died today.
McGee steps up to the plate in the midst of a volley of loaded looks exchanged through sideways glances, and finds their lead. They gather around the probie's desk, and she rests her back against his chest. Her hair smells like pomegranates - exotic and tangy. He wonders why he has never noticed this before.
...
She almost died today.
The day fades to night, and they brave the snowy roads on the way to Suspect Numero Uno's place of residence in the smellier, shadier part of town. He checks his gun three times before they even step out of the car.
"DiNozzo."
Gibbs is watching him with his all-seeing, all-knowing eyes of steel that make Chuck Norris look like a fairy princess in a sequined tutu.
"Boss?"
Gibbs fixes him with a gaze colder than the snow, but the hand that briefly grips his shoulder is warm and surprisingly reassuring. "Relax."
He doesn't. He can't - not really - but he grins back at the bossman and does not complain once when they nearly skid out on their way back to the office.
...
She almost died today.
It doesn't help that the entire team is nearly reduced to an ugly mess of road kill and twisted car guts at least twice on the way home, because that's just an everyday occurrence, an occupational hazard when your boss is Leroy Jethro Gibbs.
Business as usual does involve a lot of peril and destruction, it's true, but today has hit home in an odd sort of way.
He wonders how he's always been able to function so normally with things like this hanging over his head, why it's never really gotten to him like this before.
She almost died today, but last week McGee was at gunpoint, and he himself was home for three days with a vicious concussion only two weekends earlier.
The routine never changes, not really, even though the victims do.
But even the faces of slaughtered petty officers blend together after a while. He forgets their names, and yet he knows every barista's name at the cafe.
He thinks he's getting jaded. But that doesn't explain why he keeps having to glance across the office to ensure that Ziva David is still present and breathing.
...
She almost died today.
She doesn't seem troubled at first glance, because she still laughs and teases and smirks, but she doesn't remark when he steals the last few bites of her pizza, and so he knows that something is wrong.
"I stole your pizza," he tells her, once he has safely retreated to his own desk.
"I noticed," she says. Her eyes are downcast as she pounds out her incident report on the poor, unsuspecting keyboard.
He is dissatisfied. "Well, are you going to do anything about it?"
Her mouth quirks. "No."
McGee looks up and rolls his eyes. "There are a couple of slices left in the box, Tony, which is sitting on your desk."
"That's beside the point," he retorts airily, and zeroes in on his target once more. "Campfire. My desk. Now."
McGee gets up with a sigh, collects his coffee and cell phone, and says tiredly, "I'm going to go pretend I'm hungry and buy some Nutter Butters. You guys should really start reimbursing me for all this change I'm wasting-"
Tony throws a quarter at McGee's head. The probie takes the hint. He leaves.
...
"You almost died today, Ziva," he states before the protests can begin. "No one's gonna complain if your report's five minutes late."
She rolls her eyes, gets to her feet, and crosses the bullpen to perch on the edge of his desk. He retrieves the a slice of pizza and crams it in her mouth when she opens it to speak.
"Eat," he directs.
She does, if only to stop herself from choking, and he interrupts her when she tries once more to say something.
"Don't talk with your mouth full."
She starts to gag, dives for the nearest Styrofoam cup of coffee, and gulps the cold, bitter liquid down in what is sure to be an . . . interesting blend of flavors. When she finally swallows, he speaks before she can.
"You're dead."
Her eyes soften and she reaches out to wipe her greasy fingers on his shirt in a surprisingly tender gesture. "Tony, I am fine. Really."
"No," he disagrees bluntly. "You're not. That was Gibbs' coffee."
Ziva's eyes widen in understanding. "Gibbs is going to kill me."
"Run," he advises. Taking his hand and the box of the pizza, she does.
...
She almost died today.
They hide behind the stairway, sliding down the wall into sitting positions on the floor, and choke on pizza through their laughter, which is more of a release of tension than anything else.
Her damp curls have dried into a halo of dark disarray and her eyes, alight with laughter, are bright enough to make the atrocious orange of the walls look dim. She is beautiful and she has tomato sauce on her chin, and the idea of her dead is unfathomable.
"You almost died today," he says before he can stop himself, and the laughter freezes in mid-air, falling to the floor with a cacophonous crash of musical notes.
Ziva sighs and puts her slice of pizza down. "You almost died a couple of weeks ago."
"Not like this."
"No," she agrees, "not like this. Your encounter was by no fault of your own. Mine . . . I was just being stupid."
He opens his mouth to protest, but she stops him. "Do not say otherwise. I ran out onto unstable ice, even after being warned ahead of time. It was foolish-"
He agrees. It was stupid. But Gibbs had called her out on it. The EMTs had called her out on it. Nobody had mentioned the confused, troubled teenager she had pursued.
"You saved a kid."
"It was still foolish-"
He wipes the tomato sauce off her chin before stuffing another slice of pizza in her mouth. "Shut up and eat."
She laughs, nearly chokes on the pizza, and leans back against the wall, resting her head on his shoulder and closing her eyes. She smells like pomegranates and pizza and sawdust, and he has never loved her so much as he does in that moment.
Neither moves from that position until Gibbs delivers twin headslaps. "We got a hit on the BOLO. I expect a fresh coffee when we get there, David."
...
She almost dies.
Right there, right then.
They split up to search the house, and when it is Ziva's turn to yell "Clear!" there is only silence.
"Ziver?"
A gun cocks audibly, and then the doorway is filled by the girth of a broad-shouldered man with a pistol to the dark halo. There is a bloody gash on her forehead and a slightly dazed look in her eyes that Tony isn't buying. He's seen Ziva pull ninja feats of the craziest variety after suffering far, far worse than a concussion.
He knows what she's going to do right before she actually does it, and he only just stops himself from telling his partner sharply not to be an idiot, to let them handle this.
Instead he has to feign concern and try to hold his gun steady. Three, two, one-
She whirls into action, kicking out the massive man's legs and turning on the spot as she pulls a knife from her waistband. The menfolk of the team rush forward with guns at the ready, but by then there's little to do except cuff the stunned thug and chastise Ziva for her impetuous actions.
But Tony just stands there and wonders why the hell she keeps doing this to him.
...
She almost died twice today.
He brings Chinese food, because they've consumed far too much pizza today, what with all the interrupting that had to be accomplished. Ziva opens the door before he even knocks.
"I thought we'd celebrate," he offers, closing the door with his foot, because his hands are full.
She cocks an eyebrow. "Celebrate?"
He shifts uncomfortably. "Y'know, since we're not dead and all?"
Ziva smiles. "I will get the champagne."
They toast each other and the fact that they're not dead, with forkfuls of take-out vegetable lomein and glasses of expensive champagne over a tablecloth of case files and take-out menus, and he finds himself laughing.
She almost died today, but her lips are sweet and bubbly like champagne, and he has never felt so alive as he does in the moment he first kisses her.
He thinks she tastes like life itself.
So what do we think of this kind of style? Is it too abrupt? Favorite lines? Review, please!
By the way - happy holidays! Thanks to everyone who reads and reviews. You guys are just great!