Based on this tumblr post (and my subsequent tags).
important otp question:
who goes 'I'm too hot' and who goes 'hot damn'
Tagged: #tony is the 'hot damn'er #much to ziva's chagrin #she gets really annoyed with him when he does it #because 99% of the time she's talking about the fucking weather #and he's just being a doof #and she secretly loves uptown funk but wants to play off like it irritates her
Plenty of allusions to past episodes, but doesn't really go anywhere in particular on the timeline. I started this last summer, when "Uptown Funk" was still actually pretty prolific and getting constant airtime. I still hear it from time to time, but nowhere near as often. So just imagine that this fic is somewhere around that time, when you couldn't go more than 10 seconds without hearing it on the radio.
This was meant to be pretty light-hearted, but it took a much darker turn about halfway through, but it recovers, I promise.
Hot Damn
"This song again?" Ziva muttered under her breath, turning the dial down so that the music was barely audible over the hum of the air conditioning blasting through the vents. Summer was in full swing, the government-issued Impala took forever too cool, and Tony always made it a point to dance in his seat as soon as the opening beats to the year's catchiest tune began.
Today was no exception.
"Must you?" she snapped, aggravated. She fiddled with the dial to the air conditioning for at least the fifth time, unsatisfied with the amount of cooling the overworked machine was giving off. She would have to request a service, which would likely not be completed until winter, thanks to the never-ending bureaucracy of the American federal agencies, even for something as simple as fixing a stupid car.
She sighed.
When they pulled up at a red light, she glanced at her partner, noting that he was still mouthing along with the words to the song, oblivious to the fact that she was aggravated.
Or probably not oblivious at all, knowing her partner.
The light turned and she sped through the intersection, weaving her way in and out of traffic. To his credit, Tony didn't sing along, only mouthed the words.
If she were being honest, she kind of liked "Uptown Funk," but Tony would give her endless grief about it if he knew, so she played up her irritation whenever it came on. Not to mention the fact that he was a huge, goofy dork, trying to dance like he was young or hip when he was, in fact, neither of those things. The embarrassment at being seen with him during these episodes was enough to raise her hackles, anyway, so her annoyance was justified. Keep telling yourself that, she thought.
Sometimes, she wondered how this lovable idiot had wedged his way into her heart, against every last piece of her better judgment. Another light changed to red, and she used the time to fiddle with the air conditioning, fanning her fingers in front of the vent, then smacking the dashboard in frustration. "It's too hot!"
"Hot damn," he replied immediately, as though he were just singing along with the song and not responding to his partner.
Ziva glared at him, annoyed as a smirk lit up his face. "I am going to stab you," she threatened, pointing her finger toward his face, a sharp fingernail aimed dangerously close to his eye, but turned her face toward the driver's side window to hide the smile she felt forming, because it would betray her anger. Tony was such a child sometimes, but she had to admit that he knew how to make her laugh.
She would just never give him the satisfaction. Being angry with him was safer, easier.
"Don't think I can't see you smiling," he teased, and Ziva turned to face him, stunned. How did he …?
"Admit it," he began, reaching up and taking her hand out of his face, lowering it rubbing his thumb along her palm. "You love 'Uptown Funk.' I bet you dance to it in your underwear in the living room of your apartment."
"Do not project your weird rituals onto me," she warned, but there wasn't much power behind her statement. He wasn't that far off, actually, and the fact that he was able to see through her false irritation made her slightly uneasy. When had he figured her out?
He was still holding her hand, and she looked down at the way his fingers lightly caressed her own. She probably shouldn't let him in, she reminded herself, but turned her hand to intertwine their fingers anyway, giving his hand a tight squeeze as her way of calling for a truce between them. He smiled slightly, almost uncertainly, and uttered one quick phrase under his breath, one Ziva almost didn't catch. "Straight masterpiece," he sang, nodding slightly toward her and squeezing her hand back.
She felt the pink rushing to her cheeks at the words. It wasn't really an admission, no more than "contents priceless" had been, but it still sent little flutters of happiness coursing through her.
The NCIS jackets were stiflingly hot in the midday heat, and they'd been searching through this field for evidence for the last several hours. Ziva lost count of the number of times she'd wiped her sleeve across her brow, doing everything in her power to keep from sweating all over the evidence.
It was amazing how having been away from a warm climate for so long had caused her to lose all of her tolerance for the heat.
Gibbs and McGee were over on the other side of the field, near a tractor one of the witnesses had seen the victim driving on the day he was murdered. They were looking for evidence there, and she and Tony were crouched down looking through the footprints in the mud, hoping to find that small shred of something that would lead them away from this damned inferno.
"Found anything yet, Ziva?" He called from a few feet away, squinting his eyes toward her as he looked in her direction, the brightness of the sun hurting his eyes from beneath his cap.
"Nothing," came the response, and she sighed in annoyance, standing up from her squat position and walking toward him. "I do not think we will find anything here," she added, though that had certainly never changed anything about their investigations before. Gibbs was nothing if not thorough, and that often came at the expense of comfort, or necessary things like food or sleep.
"Well we can't leave, not until-"
"Until we have checked every inch of this field, yes, Tony, I know." She sighed again, lifting her hat off of her head to let her scalp cool down for just a few moments, letting the breeze whip errant strands of her hair into her face. It felt good to take the hat off, even for just a little bit. They had only examined about half of the path made by the tracks, and the time spent in the sun's heat while wearing all black had felt endless.
"I'm too hot," she complained, fanning herself with her hat and wishing, not for the first time, that this stupid victim had died indoors. As it was, his house was just at the edge of the field, but Gibbs had insisted that they check the field first, citing their need for natural light and not agent comfort. Ziva knew that he wasn't wrong, as looking around in the dark would make their jobs much harder, but it really could have been on a cooler day.
"Hot damn," came Tony's response, and Ziva turned her head toward him incredulously, her hand stopping mid-fanning motion. Again?
"Seriously, Tony?" she grumbled, annoyed that she'd walked so readily into an "Uptown Funk" reference for the second time in two days. Could he not take anything without turning it into some stupid reference? "And I thought your movie references were annoying," she added, shaking her head in disbelief.
His jaw dropped and he played at being offended, smacking his hand to his heart and saying, "You wound me," with a playful smirk. His theatrics were – as usual – endearing, and Ziva found herself struggling to keep from smiling at him despite her aggravation at his never-ending teasing, this go-nowhere case, and this unbearable heat.
Something caught her eye in the distance, and that's when she noticed that the nearby house was giving off smoke. "Tony," was all she said, nodding toward its direction, and he turned, looking toward the building as it suddenly erupted into flames, all the evidence they hadn't yet gone to collect swiftly taken off the table.
"Shit," he muttered under his breath, then called to the other two agents across the field, pointing. "Hey Boss, we have a problem over there!" Gibbs and McGee turned in the direction of the house, McGee's shoulders slumping at the sight, while Gibbs stood silently, breathing in a deep sigh.
"So now what?" Ziva asked, wiping the sweat from her brow yet another time.
"We call the po-lice and the fireman, and then we get back to looking for evidence out here, I guess," he responded, pulling out his cell phone and dialing the emergency services.
"The po-lice and the fireman," she mimicked, scowling. If he didn't stop bringing up that song and getting it stuck in her head, she would make sure that he got something stuck in his head. Something pointy.
Catching her eye, Tony grinned smugly as he began to give the information to the dispatcher on the line while Ziva silently seethed at him. When he hung up the phone, sliding it neatly back into his pocket, she caught his eye again, asking him, "Why do you insist on singing that song all the time?"
"Because it annoys you so much," he answered almost immediately, and she reached over to smack him on the back, causing him to cough in surprise.
"Keep it up, and I will have to strike you much harder than that," she threatened, then leaned over, lowering her voice and whispering in his ear, "Don't believe me? Just watch." He turned to face her, noting how her eyes shined with amusement, and it was all he could do not to lean over and kiss her right there, in full view of Gibbs, McGee, the police, and the firemen, despite the fact that she'd probably harm him even more grievously for that.
She stepped back again, still smirking, and crouched down to the ground, resuming her work combing through the field. Maybe now he would finally stop with the lyrics.
The case turned out to be connected to a major prostitution ring on top of the drug running they'd initially suspected, and Ziva had been sent out – with Tony in tow – to secure some intel on the operations these guys were running.
They would be going to a local night club one of the victims had been a patron of, and she was going to play the part of a sex worker. The club was definitely more on the adult entertainment side of things, but wasn't strictly classified as a strip club, as it had a dance floor and regular live entertainment – aside from the women. "I will be a stripper," she had insisted, not wanting to put herself at any risk of being mistaken for someone who would be willing to have sex with someone for money. "A stripper who wants to be a singer," she'd added, needing an excuse to have Tony accompany her into the club.
Tony would be going along as her agent. "Agent DiNozzo, at your service," he had joked, and Ziva had shaken her head, trying her best not to laugh at him, despite his stupid pun.
They'd had an hour to do some shopping and were getting ready in the locker rooms at NCIS. Tony had slicked his hair back, looking something like the guys from Miami Vice – very sleazy, Ziva noted – and Ziva had dressed like, well, a stripper.
She looked herself over in the mirror, leaning forward slightly to add some makeup to her face. She was wearing a black leather miniskirt with fishnets and towering platform heels that Tony had called "stripper shoes," along with a tight blue bustier. She eyed herself critically in the mirror as she put the lid back onto her tube of lipstick, stuffing it into the tiny purse she would carry.
"I'm too hot," she complained as she adjusted the way her breasts fit in the bustier, staring at the short skirt and the extreme cleavage, concerned that she would begin to look more like a hooker and less like a stripper.
"Hot damn," he replied automatically, eyeing her up and down.
"You could at least try not to act like the man you're dressed as, you know," she spat, annoyed at his leering.
"Sorry," he said earnestly, taking a step toward her. "You really do look … sexy …" he said, his voice lowering an octave. He raised his eyebrows, hoping that she wouldn't take his compliment the wrong way.
Her face flushed at his words, and her gaze softened, though she didn't respond. This was not the time to get sentimental; they had a job to do.
Tony placed his hands on her shoulders and turned her to face him, away from the mirror. "Seriously, Ziva, you look great," he assured her.
"That is what I am worried about," she replied, knowing the type of men she was likely to be meeting with at this establishment. "These are not exactly the type of men who would take 'no' for an answer, especially from someone dressed as I am."
"So kick their asses," he supplied with a shrug, and she had to smile. Like that was the solution to everything. "I'm sure those heels aren't going to slow you down too much, ninja," he added, and she had to smile gratefully at his confidence in her.
"It couldn't have possibly escaped your notice that I have no place to keep a weapon on me," she pointed out, motioning to the outfit she was wearing and inadvertently giving him permission to look her up and down again. There was something about the way he gazed at her this time that unnerved her, unsettled her unlike his previous lecherous gaze.
Perhaps because this time, she noted, it was actually Tony who was looking at her like that, and not some character he was playing.
"I can be your agent-slash-boyfriend," he suggested, continuing before she could protest. "Walk in there with my arm around you, like I own you – as these sleazy types do – not let you out of my sight, that sort of thing."
"I suppose that would work."
"Don't sound so thrilled," he said, his sarcasm not escaping Ziva's notice. She smiled sheepishly and reached up to pat his cheek playfully, looking at him almost apologetically. Almost.
"It is not you, Tony. It is the idea of being treated like property, yours or anyone else's." And they'd reached the very heart of the matter, she supposed. Walking into a club dressed like she was, on Tony's arm, would do little to convey to anyone that she was her own person.
Tony took hold of Ziva by her arms, turning her to face him then, urging her to look at him. When she did, he spoke. "But I will know the truth," he supplied, looking at her earnestly. "Besides. Let them all think that you're weak-willed, a victim. Then you can take them completely by surprise the minute you need to go full ninja on them."
"You make a good point," she acquiesced, turning back to glance at herself in the mirror again. "Are you sure I look all right?" Ziva had never been one to worry this much about her appearance, but then again, she'd never really shown this much skin on an op before. The last thing she wanted was to appear uncomfortable in her own skin.
"Too hot," Tony reminded her, and she smirked inwardly.
"Hot damn," she replied, testing it out as she walked toward the doorway, motioning for him to follow her. It was nearly showtime.
"I knew you liked that song," he teased as he caught up to her, reaching to touch the small of her back as he led her out the door. It was an innocent touch most of the time, but as Tony was charged with being her possessive boyfriend, it – plus his commentary – caused her to stiffen.
She turned around swiftly, glaring at him. "I did not know that reciting one line from a song indicated that I enjoy it."
"Generally, it does," he said, nodding with a wink.
"Tony?"
"Hmm?"
"Shut up, before I 'Uptown Funk' you up," she threatened, and if he hadn't been so shocked that she'd used the lyrics a second time, he might have recognized that she'd issued him a warning.
He recovered quickly, raising his eyebrow and responding, "I love it when you talk dirty."
In the interest of appearing more like a couple out on a date, Tony had asked Ziva if she'd like to head out to the dance floor with him. "That way," he'd said, leaning toward her to whisper in her ear, ever the appearance of an intimate couple, "we can survey more than one side of the room."
Ziva had agreed, and it was that agreement that had led to her feet absolutely killing her as she and Tony moved along to what must have been the fifth – no, sixth – song in a row. "Tony," she said as she leaned forward, grasping his arm and pulling him toward her, attempting to appear slightly inebriated. "Can we sit down for a minute?"
"Ahh, despite your earlier bravado, I see that the heels are disagreeing with you," he said, pulling her closer to him – possessively, he hoped – and practically kissing her neck as he spoke. She shuddered and leaned into him, and he wasn't sure for the moment whether she was acting or whether she was truly reacting to his breath on her skin.
He pulled her against him, and they wandered off the dance floor, settling down on a couple of empty barstools. "Much better," she breathed, hoping that no one was noticing her discomfort, seeing as she was supposed to be someone who was used to wearing these ridiculous platforms.
Tony's arm was still slung tightly around her, and he nodded to catch the bartender's attention before pulling her close to him and planting a kiss on the top of her head, effectively marking his territory. He was playing the part well, but he squeezed his fingers into her waist just enough to let her know that he knew she was feeling uncomfortable, in more ways than one.
"That your girl?" The man they'd been looking for all night had suddenly materialized, leering at Ziva and licking his lips. Pete Dawes, one of the prime suspects in their case and a known sex trafficker. What a scumbag, Tony thought inwardly, but he merely pulled Ziva closer to him – if that were possible, and played the part.
"Yeah," he said, offering a challenge in the way he held her possessively. Ziva leaned into him, doing her part to act the dutiful girlfriend.
"What's your name, sugar?" Dawes asked, and Ziva swallowed every last bit of disgust she possessed and acted as sweet as the endearment he'd given her.
"Mary Lee," she drawled, putting on a syrupy voice for his benefit, "but my stage name's LiLi Tawkins."
"Stage name? You perform?"
Tony growled at the both of them, doing his best to act as defensive as possible. "You keep your hands off of my talent," he threatened, narrowing his eyes at the man and staring menacingly. Ziva looked up at him, acting afraid, as though she expected him to become violent at any turn. He was doing a spectacular job at convincing everyone that he was this character.
"All right, all right," Dawes said, backing off reluctantly, glaring at Tony. Not one to be outdone, Tony glared right back, matching the intensity of his stare. "But if you ever want a real shot, doll, here's my card."
Ziva looked at the card that Dawes held out to her hesitantly. Before reaching out to take it, she looked up at Tony, seemingly asking his permission. When Tony didn't move, neither giving nor denying her permission to take it, she took the card timidly, biting her lip and stuffing it quickly into her small purse. She looked back up at him, and noticed Tony's jaw tighten as though he had something else to say, when Dawes backed off and headed back into the crowd.
Ziva let out a breath she hadn't known she'd been holding. They'd done it. They'd managed to attract the attention of the man they'd come here for, and even better, they'd gotten his card. When Gibbs was ready, they could use Ziva to call him and set up a meeting, where they'd be able to get at his operation and take him down.
Tony leaned into Ziva, whispering, "Well done," into her ear, though he gripped her arm rather tightly, all part of the act they needed to maintain until they left for the evening.
"Let's get out of here," she pleaded, standing up and grabbing him by the hand, pulling her with him.
"What, you don't want to stay and dance a few more songs?" he teased, nodding toward her feet. Ziva didn't respond, and he followed her wordlessly as they left the club.
The minute they got back into their car she slid the torturous shoes off her feet, heaving a sigh of relief at both the removal of the terrible footwear and being out of that damn club. Tony turned on the car and turned up the radio, shaking his shoulders to the beat of the one song Ziva would have preferred to have stayed in the club to avoid – "Uptown Funk."
"Not this song again," she grumbled, turning her head to look at him and sighing ruefully.
"Come on, Ziva," he cajoled with a smile, before singing along with the lyrics, looking at her intently in a way that seemed to suggest that he was singing the lyrics directly to her. "Dance. Jump on it. If you sexy then flaunt it. If you freaky then own it. Don't brag about it, come show me."
She smiled, because seriously, what a lovable fucking dork, and joined in, shaking her head as she sang with him, "Come on, dance. Jump on it. If you sexy then flaunt it. Well it's Saturday night and we in the spot. Don't believe me just watch!"
The grin he gave her as she finally gave in to the musical sensation that was "Uptown Funk" seemed to light up the whole car, and as the song ended and the station turned to commercial, Tony took her hand, kissed it, and blurted, "I love you, Ziva."
"Because I sang 'Uptown Funk' with you?" she asked incredulously.
"Partially," he teased, squeezing her fingers not unlike the way he had the other day.
"You're an idiot," she said, shaking her head and turning to look out the window as they pulled away from the club, lifting her free hand to cover the grin that she couldn't keep from spreading across her face.
I hope you enjoyed this! I know it's been forever since I've written. Finals happened, then vacation happened. The vacation was amazing and really refreshing, but now that I'm back I hope to publish a lot more frequently than I have been. Thank you so much for reading and sticking by me!