I shall spare you the 'This will only be a one-shot' speech because we all know that with one review begging me to continue I shall end up finding a way and this will not be a one-shot any more.
This is sort of confusing. I barely understand it and I wrote it.
And it was only supposed to be short. Around six hundred words.
Maybe I should just stop saying things like that…
I do not know if this is any good, you will have to tell me in your review. It is a different style to how I normally write.
Another Man. Another Woman. The Same Dance.
She was dancing with another man.
He was dancing with another woman.
She wears a floaty mint green dress.
He wears a black tux.
It suits her, but she doesn't realise it.
He looks good in it, and he knows it.
No steps, just swaying to the music.
The band stops.
The music changes.
A song they both know.
They danced it last year.
Together.
The same song.
Different partners.
Waltz no. 2 from Jazz Suite no. 2
The swaying turns into steps.
The ones they had taken last year.
Together.
Her partner cracked a joke. He didn't seem as funny as he had last night, not compared to him.
He looked at his partner. She didn't seem as beautiful as she had last night, not compared to her.
She wondered what he saw in the woman.
He wondered what the guy had that he hadn't.
Their eyes met across the room.
They stepped the same steps.
They danced with different partners.
They kept their eyes locked from then on.
His were emerald and sad.
Hers were chocolate and full of pain.
She thought she saw him smile at her. Gone. Just a trick of her mind.
He thought he saw a tear trickle down her cheek. Gone. Just a trick of the light.
Her partner turned and she lost sight of him momentarily.
He couldn't see her face anymore and he felt lost.
And then she tilted her head.
And then he caught her eye.
Another trick of the mind.
Another trick of the light.
This time his partner notices and cranes her neck, asking 'What's so interesting?'
This time her partner notices and wipes the moisture away, asking 'What's so upsetting?'
She sees him shake his head and turn back to his partner and her giggles.
He sees her turn back to her partner and brush the tears off as tiredness.
She looks at the man with red hair in front of her and asks herself what she's doing with him.
He looks into the blue eyes in front of him and wonders what went wrong.
She looks up again, trying to see the two emeralds sparkling at her, only to see his lips attached to his dates.
He breaks away from a kiss that was barely mediocre compared to her kiss, just in time to see the heavy wooden door to the ballroom as the last wisps of mint green chiffon that suits her so well and the last tendrils of dark brown hair escape.
She gasps as the cold wind hits her and the snow starts melting on her olive skin.
He drags his partner, ignoring her protests, over to the man with the red hair and tells them to occupy themselves.
She starts looking for a cab to take her home until she realises that she left her bag in the hall along with her coat.
He runs out of the heavy door, allowing it to slam for the second time in a matter of minutes and attracting the attention of the rest of the party of federal agents.
A redhead places a restraining hand on the forearm of a man with silver hair, a temper and a set of rules that are there for a reason.
She starts to shiver, cursing New Year's Eve in her mother tongue.
He runs down the steps and through the lobby out into the snow, swearing at the sudden change in temperature from overly warm to below freezing.
Her teeth chatter and she rubs her arms to keep warm.
He smiles when he sees her, yelling in Hebrew in a sign on the bus stop reading 'No busses New Year's Eve and New Year's Day'.
She sinks down in the white blanket.
He hurries over, shaking her shoulder when she doesn't respond.
She is aware of a familiar presence somewhere behind her, a slight pressure on her arm.
He removes his jacket and wraps it around her shivering form.
She breathes in the smell of the jacket. It smells like him.
He notices all of a sudden how quickly the snow is falling when her small figure is dripping wet with melting flakes.
She notices how warm he is as heat radiates off of him, through his white dress shirt.
He wraps his arms around her and lifts her up.
"Come back inside."
She doesn't argue as he carries her trembling form towards the warm glow coming from the hotel lobby.
No more waltzes were playing.
The band was quietly playing Sinatra instead.
Eyes followed them as he pushed through the doors to the ballroom.
She couldn't care about the feeling of being watched as she was led to the large open fire at the opposite end the hall.
She was too cold. Too wet.
He caught the eyes of a woman in black lace.
The woman in black lace hurried off, towing another man behind her.
She felt his warm hands on her shoulders as he sat her down on the floor next to the flames.
People openly watched until he glared at them.
People watched out of the corner of their eye then, curious as to what was going on.
The woman in black lace hurried back with the other man.
She and the other man, the man with sandy hair, handed him an armful of towels.
She didn't feel as the towels were wrapped around her.
He shouted.
She could hear distant babbling, like someone talking, but it wasn't in a language she understood.
An older man was looking at her, checking her over for signs of injury.
Just cold.
Verging on hypothermia.
Warm her up and she'll be fine.
"What was she doing out there?"
He knows it's his fault.
She's cradled in his arms as he rocks her slowly.
Forwards.
Backwards.
Forwards.
Backwards.
He was muttering to her, apologising.
She still couldn't understand.
His date comes over.
Shouts.
He brushes her off, tells her to call a cab and go home.
Her date comes over.
Shouts.
He suggests that they could share a cab, save costs.
Thanks God he has the woman in his arms as a shield; her date looks as if that suggestion was the last straw.
He turns back to the fire, to the woman in his arms.
Her cheeks were flushed and her eyes looked glassy.
He wrapped another towel around her as she shivered.
She nestled into his chest and closed her eyes, mumbling something about smelling good.
No-one understood her.
She spoke in Hebrew.
He asked for English.
Moments passed.
He kissed the top of her head.
"Come on, Ziva. Say something I can understand."
She finally found the words.
"You smell good, Tony."
He laughed.
Everyone in the small group of family laughed.
Almost everyone.
Not the silver haired man with the temper and the set of rules.
He just smiled.
For my reference: 20th NCIS fic.