A/N: I was walking along the beach this afternoon (a perk for living in the Sunshine State) and this came to me. And for the record: I hate Vance. I think Rocky Carroll is a fine actor and I like Leon Vance's wife and kids -they seem very nice. But I hate Vance. Passionately. The man is dirty. Dirty dirty dirty. That being said, I have no clue as to why I would write anything pertaining to Vance in a human-not-evil way, but I did. And for the record: I have no idea how close a beach is to D.C., so use your imagination (and I am not suggesting that one just sprung up on Capital Hill randomly, so don't imagine that). And now on to the story! Peace and love, Kit.
DISCLAIMER: Nothing, sadly, is mine.
For Now
The air is cool, the breeze wafting in off the indigo water. The salty aroma of ocean water permeates the air. Cries of gulls overhead are unsuccessful in drowning out the sound of waves lapping against the shore and the laughter of his children running from the incoming tide.
Normally he would have smiled when Jackie suggested that they take the kids on a short trip to the shoreline, promised her the weekend even though it would never come. Because international crises and a war on terrorism never stalled, never relented, never took the weekend too. But when he came home for lunch she had posed the question, wondered innocently if a short trip, nothing long, just enough time to walk on the beach, maybe build a sandcastle, would be manageable. And it sounded so good, to just take off work early, no cases had yet come up, and spend the late afternoon with his family. So he did.
And now here he is, standing and watching. Jackie has her back to him, sitting on a towel, arms wrapped around her knees, enjoying life and keeping a sharp eye on the children. Jared is poking something in the water with a stick, water marks up to his knees where he's gotten wet –even though the water was freezing, even though his mother told him he better not catch a cold. Lily is trying channel a mote around the crumbling remains of the sand castle she and her brother built. And though the air is chilly, his heart is warm.
There's laughter and his attention is drawn a little ways down the shore where a couple is slowly picking their way up the beach. They clearly had the same idea he did, to take a walk along the shoreline after work, because they both have their pant legs rolled up to their knees, the man having unbuttoned his dress shirt so it flutters around him. The woman is pointing to something in the water and they pause, her partner leaning down to whisper in her ear. Whatever he said, it must have been inappropriate because she swats his arm. They continue walking and he continues watching.
The man reaches out, capturing the woman's hand in his, linking them together. And her laughter mixes with his children's giggles and seagull cries as their arms swing in sync.
And it isn't until the pair is directly in front of him, albeit several yards away, that he finally recognizes who the couple is.
And labeling them partners is an understatement.
Because the man with the hundred-watt smile is none other than one very special senior agent who is possibly more trouble than he's worth.
And his petite companion is none other than the one person who is proving to quite an acquired mess at the agency. And he is simultaneously surprised and impressed that David is permitting DiNozzo to hold her hand.
And apparently it is impossible to leave the office at the Navy Yard.
And right when he thinks this cannot get any more bizarre, David leans into DiNozzo, bracing herself against his side. And while their linked hands separate, he snakes his arm around her waist, pulling her closer. And he says something else and, once again, David slaps his chest, her laughter again mixing into the air.
He feels guilty briefly, like he's infringing on a very private, very intimate moment. But that passes and now he's just irritated.
Irritated that one of the agency's top tenets is being encroached upon. And not only is it company policy that these two have totally disregarded, but the more formidable aspect of their careers: Their team leader and his uncanny set of guidelines. Because there is definitely some rule that states something about intradepartmental relationships. . . .
"Leon?" Jackie's voice is suddenly beside him, her dark eyes peering up at him curiously. "Honey, what you thinking about?"
And he shakes his head, eyes returning to the retreating form of NCIS' most unorthodox, albeit best, partnership.
"Nothing, baby," he assures her, kissing her head. Because he is off the clock. Right now Leon Vance is not the Director of NCIS. Right now he is simply Leon Vance, father and husband, enjoying an evening with his family.
And right now, DiNozzo and David are off the clock. Right now Anthony DiNozzo is not a very special agent, he's just a guy on a beach with a woman he cares so very much about. And right now, Ziva David is not an ex-Mossad-operative-turned-special-agent. She's just a woman on a beach with a man who just may love her for her.
Right now they're all just people.
So Monday at work, when DiNozzo is picking on McGee and David is watching amusedly, aiding Tony in his quest to be the worst coworker possible and interfering on behalf of McGee when necessary, Vance won't say a thing. Because Gibbs doesn't have to know. Because Leon Vance, Director of NCIS, did not see two of his agents nuzzling after work. Leon Vance, guy on a beach with his family, who just happened to see two people in their own little world, completely immersed in each other, happy.
And that's fine by him. For now.
P.S. I have co-written a story with the lovely Weasley's Revenge, so if you are craving more romantic-type stuff of the Jibbs (yes, Jibbs) variety, then feel free to pop on over to 'The Problem With The Day' -if you want., that is. Until next time (soon), Kit.