4 Snuggleupagus
Ziva took the empty bowl away. When she was done cleaning up, Tony was asleep, his head thrown back at an uncomfortable-looking angle, and snoring, but not too much. This was as a good a time as any to snatch the phone, but she didn't see it anywhere, and she realized that it was almost certainly in his back pocket. That's where he usually kept it when he was wearing jeans. He might also have guessed that she was really after the phone and slipped it somewhere so that retrieving it would involve a wrestling match. Which she would win, but not without some embarrassing moments.
Well, she thought, taking his phone was probably unwise, as he didn't seem to have a landline. As long as he was sleeping, he couldn't bother McGee. And while he was sleeping, she was free to engage in a little old-fashioned sleuthing. Wasn't that what Tony was always advocating?
Just off the kitchen, in what was, in less prosperous times, probably a bedroom, she found the holy of holies: his closet. All his beautiful suits, arranged from light to dark, his shirts arranged the same way. His shoes were a bit too utilitarian, though not as bad as McGee's, but there were a few pairs of handsome loafers and a pair of cordovan wingtips that wouldn't have looked out of place on Cary Grant. On the back of the door, a forest of ties. She didn't much approve of his taste in ties: too narrow, too conservative in color. Perhaps she would get him something bright for his birthday, yellow or orange. With more interesting patterns. The room smelled of cedar and Tony at his morning freshest. She was tempted to take pictures.
Back in the living room, Tony was still snoring away, still in his uncomfortable-looking position. She rooted around the piano a bit. In the bench there was a sheaf of very old, much-handled classical scores—very hard pieces, Liszt and Chopin. Many of them had faded notes in an unfamiliar, feminine-looking hand. Perhaps they had come with the piano, but why did he have the piano in the first place? She felt a stirring of dislike for any woman who could have such a fondness for Liszt.
Still feeling a bit annoyed, she turned her attention to the shelves. Along with all the movies, he had a smallish collection of CDs and a great many vinyl records, also old and looking as if they'd come from garage sales, Frank Sinatra and such. The old album covers gave her an idea of why Tony loved his narrow ties. She was tempted to put something on, but the stereo also seemed quite old and complicated. Strange how many of fastidious Tony's things seemed second-hand.
She went back to the movies. His taste, as she knew, was quite broad—so broad as to be basically, well, tasteless. There were a great many action movies alongside screwball comedies, westerns next to silent movies from Weimar Germany, 40s noir and 70s grittiness, French new wave next to unabashedly chickish flicks, and, yes, a few Bollywood films. There was even a copy of Cooch Cooch Hoda Hai, which he must have lifted from the evidence locker. She thought she would remind him of his promise that they'd watch it someday. Well, find someway to remind him that wouldn't tip him off to the extent of her snooping.
And then she found it: the three-disc 45th anniversary commemorative blu-ray edition of The Sound of Music, still in its cellophane wrapping. She read the contents with mounting excitement: Commentary with Julie Andrews and Christopher Plummer! The real von Trapp Family! Virtual map of locations in Salzburg! On-screen lyrics!
Her longing to see this movie on Tony's supersized high-def television, with its blu-ray player and surround sound, was so strong she could taste it, a taste thicker than her good chicken soup. Before she knew what she was doing her nail had worked its way through the cellophane, and the blue box was open in her hands, impossibly tempting.
She looked again at the sleeping Tony, and got crafty. She went to the sofa. "Tony," she said softly. No response. More loudly, "Tony." No response. Directly in his ear, "My little hairy butt." The only response was a small snort before his snoring fell back into its original cadence. She wondered if she had drugged the chicken soup and just forgotten.
Ninja, you can do this, she told herself. It would just take some careful planning. She figured out the remotes and slipped the precious disc into the blu-ray player. Then she heaved Tony's legs up onto the sofa, and angled the rest of him down more carefully. His snoring dropped several decibels, but he didn't wake. So close. She was about to put a pillow under his head when she had a better idea. She climbed up on the sofa and settled his head in her lap. He shifted about a bit, then snuggled himself down as if she were his favorite pillow.
She touched his cheek. "Tony, I'm turning on The Sound of Music. I know how much you hate that movie." He mumbled a bit before settling down again. Smiling, deeply pleased with herself, she turned on the movie. At first she kept the sound quite low, then gradually turned it up. Eventually she brought up the on-screen lyrics and sang along a bit. And then sang along a bit louder. He slept through it all. He was heavy but warm, and she figured this was about how a sable blanket felt. Or a Saint Bernard, with less slobber.
When she had seen the movie, and some parts of it twice, and cried a few happy tears, and watched the extras, it was getting dark. He was shifting around a bit more and she realized her legs were asleep. But she managed to slide out and slide the pillow in smoothly enough. On very stiff legs she got the disc out and back into its box and his copy of Crank back in the blu-ray player. Once The Sound of Music was back safely on the shelf, she let out the breath she hadn't realized she had been holding. A brilliant op, and she had pulled it off.
She was putting a bowl of water by the heat register when he finally woke. He sat up and rubbed his eyes, looking young and a little perplexed. "What time is it?"
"It's almost six."
"Did I sleep all that time? You did put something in the soup."
"I did not put anything in the soup. You needed the rest."
"What did you do? You've been snooping around, haven't you?"
"I watched Crank. It was in the player."
"I slept through Crank?"
"I turned the subtitles on."
"Crank with subtitles? That ruins it."
"Nothing could ruin Crank."
"Where are you going?"
"I have work to do." She put on her coat. "There is plenty of soup left. Medium heat for about 10 minutes should do it. Don't skip the vegetables. And don't forget, we have duty on Saturday. I expect you will be there."
"You think your soup is that awesome?"
"I think my soup is that awesome and your recuperative powers are awesome as well. I will see you on Saturday."
"You would never have found the phone."
She smiled. "I am glad to see that your powers of deduction are also still awesome."
"Thank you, Ziva," he said.
"You're welcome." And it never occurred to her to wonder what on earth he was doing with the 45th anniversary commemorative three-disc blu-ray set—with on-screen lyrics!—of a movie she knew he didn't like.
