False Flags
pt. 11
Ziva sat down beside the bed with a stern expression. "It is time."
"Time for what?" Jenny had the vague idea from the light outside that it was late morning, but her internal clock wasn't to be trusted.
"For your lessons."
"Lessons?" She struggled against the lingering haze of painkillers and sleep. "Oh, the Hebrew lessons?"
"Yes."
"I sort of thought that was a joke. Something to take my mind off of other things." Looking at Ziva, she could tell the argument was futile. "But I guess it couldn't hurt."
"You have been liaising with Mossad for four months. It is reasonable to assume that you might continue to do so in the future. Therefore, a knowledge of Hebrew will be very valuable."
"You're right." She shifted up the bed. Despite the prohibition on sitting, she was damned if she was going to do this actually flat on her back. "Can you hand me a glass of water?"
Ziva simply stared at her and spoke a garbled sentence.
"Wha--? Oh." She sighed. "Okay." Her attempt to repeat what she had heard wasn't a total failure. Ziva smiled, handed her the water, and repeated the phrase again. It was going to be a long afternoon.
The Hebrew lessons turned out to be a mixed blessing. They gave Jenny something to do, in between sleeping and signing off on the seemingly endless operational reports that were churned out by some unseen Mossad desk agent, but they tied her still-muzzy brain in knots.
"I'm going crazy in this bed," she said at some point during the third day at the embassy. She waited impatiently as Ziva repeated the phrase in Hebrew and then attempted to parrot it back. As she spoke, Jenny parsed the sentence out in her head, fairly certain she'd wouldn't need the whole phrase in that exact form in the future. But then, she should have learned by now never to assume.
Of Ziva's response, she understood that it contained the verb "to do" and the second person singular pronoun--and little else. "I am serious, Ziva. I need something to do."
She cut off the ensuing rephrasing. "Stop it! I can't take any more."
Startled, Ziva slipped into Arabic. "But you will never learn if you do not practice."
"So be it."
"You are only beginning to become comfortable with the basic structures."
"I don't care," she enunciated. "I'm finished for today. I'm getting out of this bed, and you can either help me or get out of my way." Her bravado flagged slightly as her ribs protested, but she levered herself upward. Once in a sitting position she paused to let the spots swimming in her vision fade.
"And what do you propose to do once you are out of the bed?" Ziva had been even-keeled since her appearance in the warehouse, and while it had initially been a comfort, it was starting feel patronizing. Jenny glared balefully at the younger woman.
"Oh, I don't know. My job, if you'll let me. Otherwise, maybe I'll go downstairs and screen visa applications."
"I do not think your Hebrew is up to the task."
"Bite me," Jenny muttered in English.
"I do not under--"
"I know." When she swung her leg off the bed it, too, began to throb. She reminded herself to breathe shallowly--but to breathe. "Are there any--" she fished for the word in Arabic, swinging her arms wildly in pantomime.
"Yes." Ziva gave her a wary glance. Clearly she didn't look much better than she felt. But the other woman left the room and returned with a pair of crutches.
"Thanks." She hesitated a moment before heaving herself off the bed, leaning on the crutches and Ziva's shoulder for balance. The world swam momentarily but everything settled into its proper place, so she let go of the Mossad agent and tucked a crutch under each arm. A few tentative steps established that neither her ribs nor her leg were a fan of the new arrangement, but she did a circuit of the room before stopping, only to find Ziva smiling broadly at her.
"What?" she asked, defensively.
"I'm sorry," Ziva snickered. "It's just that," she waved a hand the length of Jenny's body, "you are flapping."
"Flapping?" Maybe it was a translation problem.
"Yes, you know--" Ziva broke off to wave her arms out to her sides. "Flapping."
Jenny looked down and realized that while the sweatpants she was wearing were roughly the right length and could be cinched at the waist, the same was not true of the t-shirt. It was many sizes too large and hung on her frame, and where her arms stretched over the crutches, the bunched material did probably flutter behind as she lurched along. She tried to suppress her own chuckle, but it bubbled up at the sound of Ziva's choked laughter.
Soon, they were both laughing giddily--more at each other than the initial comment. She collapsed back onto the bed, hugging her ribs with her right arm and wincing, unable to meet Ziva's eyes lest it send her back into hysterics. She stared fixedly at the line where the beige carpet met the beige wall and tried to breathe normally. She had almost succeeded, too, except that Ziva let out a sound halfway between a grunt and a snort, and that finished them both for another few minutes.
Finally, gasping, she pulled herself together enough to speak. "David, you have the absolute worst timing."
"I apologize," Ziva managed to choke out. "Even I did not know I was so funny."
When Jenny finally dared to glance over, Ziva was sprawled in the chair. Her head was back, her cheeks flushed, and she looked altogether happier and more casual than Jenny had ever seen her. With her dark hair tousled and her guard down, Ziva's youth was more apparent than it had ever been.
"How did you end up here, anyway?" she wondered. Only to realize when Ziva met her eyes with a questioning look that she had been musing aloud. "Sorry," she said somewhat sheepishly.
Ziva continued to regard her curiously. Finally, she said, "I have always wanted to join Mossad."
"I know. I read the file. Your father," Jenny continued. "I figured you were following in his footsteps."
"I was, although it was my own choice."
"Of course."
Ziva cocked her head to the side. "And you? It was not in your file."
She knew. She'd checked once, just to see what information crossed the lines between branches and agencies. Since then, she'd always been very careful to see that her file contained as little information as possible-- though it was probably much thicker than it had been before she'd essentially relocated to the eastern shore of the Atlantic. "I joined the family business, too. Only I picked the field that didn't require a uniform. And I like boats," she added as an afterthought.
Ziva didn't press, though she could see a flicker of curiosity in the dark eyes. They hadn't known each other long but were already good at leaving things unsaid.
"Anyway," Jenny glanced down, "any chance of getting clothes that fit? And then I need to talk to my people in DC--see what they want to do with me."
"What would you like to do?" She couldn't begin to read Ziva's tone.
"Our priority is following the money. I probably don't need to be here on the ground for that."
"That does not answer my question."
"No." It didn't. "I'd like to stay and bring them down." She kept most of the heat out of her voice.
She could feel Ziva watching her for a long moment before rising. "I will return with clothes that do not flap."
As the door closed, she blew out a breath she hadn't been aware of holding and allowed herself a moment to slump back onto the bed.
End 11
A/N: Thanks so much for all your lovely reviews.