A/N: Hello, and welcome to Chapter 6. I just wanted to thank everyone who has reviewed the fic so far. It means so much to me that I have support and have interested a group of people as I have. Also, I must forewarn you that...well...nothing in this chapter is meant to offend any one. The end, really. I have nothing against Southern people; I actually want to move to Texas or at least visit. Hopefully you all continue to read! Enjoy.-Kat
There are six things in the world that I have never cared for. For each, there is a reason.
As we make our way toward security, we pass a store that, on one of the racks, is selling puppets for small children. I shudder.
The sixth fear is that of puppets. Mannequins, puppets, nutcrackers, dolls, marionettes, all of them—very creepy. I cannot even watch Jeff Dunham and enjoy it, especially not Achmed. I have tried and tried to get over this fear, because I know that Jeff Dunham is one of the funnier comedians on television, and that I need a good laugh every now and then, but all I end up with is a sleep full of nightmares, and a morning begun by a cold sweat. It is not good.
A little girl plucks a puppet from the rack and makes to play with it, until her mother orders her to put the fabric doll back on the shelf. "Do you know where that's been? I don't. Put it back."
The fifth encompasses the realm of arachnids. Eight legs and fur and beady little eyes, the ability to jump away from the impending shoe, their scurrying little bodies across ceilings and floors and bathtubs and sand…They make me shudder. Transform me into little more than a baby, cowering in another room, refusing to enter any room which would put me at risk of seeing, feeling, or being surprised by the creepy thing.
Luckily, spiders are uncommon visitors in airports. As I slip my shoes off and place them on the conveyor belt, I also thank God that airplanes, though germ-infested, provide little habitat for spiders.
The fourth is directly correlated to the world of horror films. Tony was not the first film aficionado that I have had the … what is the word—pleasure will just have to do—pleasure of knowing. Nehemiah Romach was a child on my street for the majority of my childhood. Of course, I would have to tell some sort of small white lie in order to see him, because, at my age, girls and boys did not intermingle. Before Tali died, Nehemiah somehow convinced me to go with him to see a movie. It was a horror film. I cannot recall the name, but Nehemiah had seen it five times and knew all of the words, all of the gory scenes, and wanted me to watch very closely.
The blood was not what frightened me, but the masks the murderer wore and the look of unadulterated terror in the victims' eyes … I had run out of the room. I only realized years later that when I was sent to kill people, they looked at me with similar looks in their eyes.
Tony apparently does not function well in the morning, and has chosen to sleep until the layover in Newark, New Jersey. He did decide against bringing his portable DVD player. For some reason, I feel that he would have brought a horror film with him to watch. Something about living in the country.
The third fear revolves around weapons. Surely, a former Mossad agent cannot be afraid of weapons, correct? Am I being silly? Yes, probably. But after Somalia, I could no longer look at whips, or chains, or knives the same way again. Obviously, I still carry around my knife, and I feel comfortable using a gun, but I must acknowledge the fact that, should any weapon fall into the wrong hands, they can become very dangerous.
"Federal agent," I reply when a security guard asks if I am carrying, displaying my badge. I lift my pant leg and pull aside my jacket to reveal my knife and handgun . He nods and lets me through. I suppose that being an agent has its benefits.
The second is probably very typical; love. I am terrified of letting my heart become the 'property' of someone else, whether it is intentional or not. I had been taken advantage of by Michael—may he rest in peace—and also by my father. I refuse to let any of that happen again. I simply would not survive it. Love is not even confined to just romance; it has to do with family, and support, and pride. The only family that I have now, as far as I am concerned, is my NCIS family. And somehow, I am okay with that.
I glance at Tony. Perhaps I am not okay with him just being family. But, for the next few months, I will be more than that, at least in character. Certainly, I cannot love him as anything more, but the past week has been such an emotional rollercoaster that I am unsure of my emotions.
Tony and I head in the direction of our boarding gate, passing a massage booth and a charging station for our phones. We finally come to a coffee shop that, surprisingly, serves made-to-order chai. I throw another look at Tony, who, although his eyes are open, is definitely half asleep, and decide to buy him a coffee as well.
Both cups in hand, I return a few moments later and thrust his coffee toward him. He looks up at me, wordlessly, although gratitude pools in his eyes. They are intensely blue today, cerulean again. I shake my head. I make him sound like a crayon, I admonish myself.
I pull my legs up into an Indian position and sip my chai. I have not had a good chai in at least a year. Somehow, for whatever reason, I did not think they even had chai in the United States, and have been severely disappointed. We remain wordless until our seats are called.
Gathering our luggage, we file toward the line, tickets ready. It seems so monotonous this morning, like everything is tinged with grey and everyone is sleeping. I am briefly reminded of that Christmas movie … Santa Claus is Coming to Town, I believe it is called. Where everything is tinged with grey and none of the children can be happy or play with toys, especially not dolls or yo-yos.
We take our seats in first class. Tony wraps his neck support—the very one he offered I use on my flight to Israel—and rests his cheek against it. He soon falls asleep. When the stewardess begins the safety instructions, however, he perks up considerably. I snort in disgust.
"Hey, okay, what if it's like Raid on Entebbe?" he jokes. "You don't wanna be stuck here, do you?"
"What is Raid on Entebbe?" I ask, opening the safety manual and double checking my seatbelt. "Is that a movie?"
"Well, yeah, it's a movie! It was a great one, too. Won a Golden Globe in 1978 for Best Motion Picture on TV!" Attempting to recline, he shoves backward in his seat, until another stewardess, clad in the typical uniform, asks him not to until we are in flight. "Sorry," he apologises, but I can tell he is not.
"And what is this movie about?" I really wish he would go back to sleep. His tired goofiness is endearing, but the fact I find it endearing concerns me.
"A flight from France is skyjacked by the PFLP." I tense up, knowing where this is going. Israel was part of this. Eli had told me about the maneuver, although Mossad had not been involved. "There were, like a hundred Jewish passengers, but the Israelis wouldn't negotiate or anything." I turn to him, torn between being offended or interested in his summary. "Finally, a group of soldiers flew in their own plane to the other plane, and saved them all, except for one Lieutenant Colonel Yoni Netanyahu."
My father had technically known him at one point, so it is strange for me to hear about this. I give him a simple nod and a smile.
Which brings us to my greatest fear.
Flying. Hijackings, and birds getting caught in the engines, and running out of fuel, and crashing … I rarely want to fly at all, but as NCIS pays me, and Gibbs would give me a head-slap if I told him I was afraid of something so trivial as a plane, I surrender my fears most of the time. And now that I get to sit beside Tony DiNozzo on most flights, I rarely get too scared at all.
"Welcome to Rochester, New York!"
At some point of the flight, I must have fallen asleep, because I jerk awake at the sound of the pilot's voice. I nudge Tony, but he is already awake, and he simply smiles at me.
"Morning, sunshine." That is the last time I fly anywhere with Anthony DiNozzo.
"The temperature is a brisk fifty-four degrees and the humidity is low. We hope you have enjoyed your flight on Jet Blue Airlines and that you will fly with us again soon! It's been our pleasure flying you today to Rochester."
The speaker crackles and the stewardess murmurs into the radio, "You may now unbuckle your seatbelts and gather your belongings from the overhead compartments. Please be careful when opening the compartments as items tend to shift during flight. We hope you have enjoyed your flight today and will fly again with us soon."
They are far too perky for someone who had to get on a plane at four in the morning, I think darkly, casting a look around me and yawning. There is an undeniable urge to stretch, so I raise my arms above my head and arch backward. I catch two teenage boys staring at me, most likely at my slimness, and I glower at them.
"Hey, Ana, relax. You were a teenager once too," Tony jokes, looping an arm around my shoulders. And so it begins.
While I am using the ladies' room, Tony disappears in search of Dollar car rental. When I finally find him, I discover he has rented a Ford Mustang.
"Really, David, was it necessary for you to rent this?" I walk around the car, softly grazing the sides with my fingers. The metal is cool to the touch, and I press my wrists against the door, trying to ward off the nausea flying often instills in my stomach.
"Yes, Ana, it was. I love this car. I would buy this car if I could." Tony opens the car door and releases the trunk. "Here. Let me get your suitcase….s….How much clothing did you bring?"
"We are moving. There is more in the moving van," I sniff, watching my 'husband' lift my suitcase and bag and somehow make room for his. "Besides, I like to have a choice of what to wear." After all, there was a time when I did not.
"Right," Tony murmurs, and takes a box out of his pocket. "Here, Ana, your ring, so that I don't lose it." He hands me the fused wedding band and engagement ring. Sun glints off of the diamond as he takes them back, then wraps his hand around mine. "I'll do it." I furrow my brow. Why would I not be able to put my own ring on? As the cool metal slips over my finger, I stare at Tony's hands.
"Why did you not just let me—"
"Because I am your husband, and I felt that it would be romantic." I stare up at him and marvel at his expression. It is neither happiness nor frustration. He is content. So, there is no reason why I should not be.
"Well, then, I should be the one to put your ring on, correct?" I gently work the velvet box from his grasp and remove the gold band, turning it over in my palm. Slowly, I slide it over his ring finger. The butterflies in my stomach take off and for a moment, I worry that I am going to be sick. They die down soon enough when he leads me to the passenger side of the car and hands me my purse.
"M'lady," Tony states, bowing his head and opening my door. "Your chariot awaits." I roll my eyes and get in, and he shuts the door behind me. After he is settled and the car is started—to which he moans, "Mm, listen to that baby purr,"—we are finally on our way to the farmhouse.
After effectively navigating through rolling hills and gorgeous countryside, past horse farms, and cow farms, and then some pretty rare housing developments, we pull into the gravel driveway of the house. I can tell from the somewhat uncomfortable expression on Tony's face, the tension in his jaw and slight wrinkling at the corners of his eyes.
"It is pretty, at least," I state matter-of-factly, breaking the silence. "And the house is pretty big. Looks like it's about seven or eight bedrooms, at least." A flash of grey fur catches my attention. "Kitten!" I hop from the car and hurtle toward the cat, perching on a bale of hay. "Aren't you precious."
I look up when I feel a gaze directed at me. I cannot, however, find the origin of the stare. Tony is still in the car, most likely dialing Gibbs' number to complain, whilst I sit and take in my surroundings. I shake off the feeling and continue petting the cat, hoping that some of the calm vibes will transfer to me.
This is what I have been dreaming of. Well, not yet. But soon, it will be. Soon, this house will be mine. At least for a month. And then I can return to the real world, my dream achieved, and figure out from there how to get it back.
"Wayell, howdeh, l'il ladeh!" a voice suddenly calls, breaking me out of my thoughts with a jerk. Clad in nothing short of full cowboy attire, including the boots, cowboy hat, and suspenders, a man of about twenty years old squeezes past a combine in the barn. "Oh, ah'm sorreh fer frightenin' ya!" I furrow my brow, not sure whether I have inadvertently also wrinkled my nose.
Before I have a chance to reply, most likely with a rude answer, Tony is by my side, his hand between my shoulder blades. It is a soft reminder that, even as just my partner, he has my six. He always has my six.
"Hi. I'm David Stadelvard, and this is my wife, Ana," he murmurs, extending a hand for the man to shake. The gesture is not returned.
Instead, the words, "Nahce t'meet ya" are murmured. It is a Southern accent that I have never heard before. Though I have travelled through several states of the South, no one I have ever met has spoken their vowels so harshly. My eyes narrow, appraising his rugged and dirty exterior, and hoping he is not the man we were sent to watch. I am soon disappointed, as he introduces himself, "Ah'm Buck Andrews." A beat. "Junior."
Tony and I exchange a glance that, to an outside, would appear to be a normal interchange between husband and wife, but is really a shout of, "He's our guy!" I smile, though, and meet his eyes once more.
"Well, Buck, it is very nice to meet you, as well. We have been looking forward to seeing this house for ourselves. Our realtor, Becky Jones, sent us pictures, and we have barely been able to wait."
"You two've come to th'right place! Yes, ma'am, this here house's been here fer about a good solid hund'rd years'r'so, and it's still got a sturdy foundation." Leaning against the combine, he lifts a leg up to prop his foot against a wheel. "Everything's included, y'see, `n I reck'n you kin get it fer a purdy good prahce, if yer willin' t'bah."
Tony stiffens beside me. "Everything, Buck? As in…"
"Yessiree! Everything. The cows—we've got about, ah'd say, twenny of `em-`n then we gotta few hens `n a rooster. Affer that, thur's a coupla horses `n a bull, `n two pigs `n a sheep `er two." After a moment, Buck adds, "And then you've got five hund'rd acres o' land that's all yers!" His excitement does not reach Tony.
"Oh, well, that's just excellent." There is a flatness to my 'husband's' voice that makes me chuckle. "What a great place to raise a family. Right, Ana?"
Without missing a beat, I nod and beam up at him. "Oh, yes, David … It's what I've always wanted."
"And whatever Ana wants, Ana gets. Right, baby?" Somehow, I feel comfortable with him calling me 'baby.' Usually I resent the usage of pet names, but this one … this one is okay. "Right. So, when can we get a look-see at the house?" I can tell he is just as irritated with Buck's accent as I am. It would not be as aggravating if it were not so obnoxious.
"Wayell, ah s'pose y'can go own in," Buck answers, scratching his head. "Although, the front room is a real mess."
Tony and I glance at each other. "Why?" I ask.
"Some ruffian done broked in th'other naht. Mussed up ev'ry dang thang, fer sure."
"Oh, Buck, that doesn't bug us," Tony murmurs, "We knew we'd have to do some cleaning before we could move in. Ana and I just want to see the house before we buy it. Cleaning can happen later."
"Ah guess ah cayen't stop ya, then," Buck concedes, playing with his fingers. "Besahds, yer gonna love it."
We nod and make our way across the small drive to the house. It is tall, white and looming, the original farmhouse cliché. There are dark green shutters on each window, a beautiful porch, trees providing shade in the vast lawn. Flower beds frame the house, a magnolia tree in full bloom scents the air, and the detached garage seems to house landscaping tools. There is a white fence running along the left side of the house, as if separating the yard from the field next to it.
I take in a deep breath. The air is fresh and clean, and I visibly relax. The entire package seems so familiar, so … perfect. In a way, I can actually feel comfortable in my character, as though somehow, I really am Ana Stadelvard, and Tony is David Stadelvard, and we are in love, and we—
"I'm so not ready for such a commitment," Tony blurts, running a hand through his hair. "But we have to get a house. Especially for your sake…"
I place a gentle hand on the side of his neck and state softly, "This is the perfect place to raise a family." I stare deeply into his eyes, silently begging him to just suck it up and deal with the fact we are out in the middle of nowhere. "Leroy said that we are ten minutes from a Wal-Mart, and a Wegman's…"
"Okay. Okay, fine," he finally admits, "we can buy the house." Well, we sort of have to…
"So this is alright with you?" I draw close to him, inches from his face. After all, we are newlyweds…
He places a feather light kiss on my lips. "Yes, Ana, my love. It is very alright with me." Tony turns toward the barn, his arm still tight around my waist. "Oh, Buck! We'll take it."
The beginning of my dream.
A/N: Well. Yep. There you go. :) As an end note, I just wanted to say that in the future, I will be trying to incorporate some Hebrew words into Ziva's words. Not swears or anything, just little blurbs. So. If I get anything wrong, spelling wise, let me know. However, I am spelling words off of phonetic spellings sent to my email. Yes, I am trying to teach myself Hebrew. Like I said. Tell me if I spell something wrong. Thanks!