Just Add Fuel
4
Enthusiasm is contagious... like a wretched, debilitating disease.
Of course, he has trouble remembering why that's important when his head comes into resounding contact with the underside of a counter top. Her enthusiasm had knocked his belt beneath the sink and with it, her bra. The resulting throb in his skull matches the banging on the door beat for beat.
"Not subtle, you guys." Abby's voice pushes past the solid door in a comic whisper-yell that proves that anger can also be prudent. That voice will make her future children cringe in their goth-onesies.
Ziva waits until the thunking clop of Abby's boots attests to lengthening distance, waits until Tony adjusts what she'd barely touched, which makes for such unfulfilled eroticism, waits until her breathing loses the steam train staccato. And then waits for him to go first, since the bullet rarely hits the person huddled behind a larger target.
The pair of them; alternately brave and cowardly. No wonder they're so smitten.
They tried so hard to keep this non-thing away from work that they ended up bringing it to work and it can't happen again because nine lives he hath not and death is never a flattering look and when the hell did he start thinking in rants?
Back to their desks and Tony tries to throw speed bumps in front of the rampant vehicle his worry is steering. When the dismissal comes with a fast-striding boss who appears to be outrunning his own curiosity, Tony lets Ziva head to the parking garage first. And it's his turn to wait, the cell phone taking an ecological shift to finally light with a message.
/My place?/
This is that awkward moment where a decision must be bludgeoned into shape with a heavy club. Is the ship already listing? Will lifeboats need to be employed? Who forgot to notice the silver-topped iceberg? Come what may, she said. But when exactly does what seal the sarcophagus?
The cleared throat wafting in from the right announces that his eyes are expected somewhere other than the blank reply screen he's been filling only mentally. The message goes unanswered and Tony finds that paternal sternness is a look best left off McGee's face. Probie can't quite pull it off, the features sliding into an imitation of moldy pizza dough.
"You gonna respond to that?" McDominos asks in a voice that should be designated 'the bite before the whine.'
"You gonna hack into my cell to read it?"
Arms fold over a chest growing more narrow by the day. Tony's been meaning to mention that. And by mention, he means mock.
"We have to be here at 6 am tomorrow. Which means you should probably just car pool."
The ire is raised first, followed by the tattered flag of truce because if he argues now, Ziva will have time to change her locks.
"I'm touched that you wanna share a ride, McFossilFuel, but I have other plans."
"Yeah, which brings me to intentions."
God, it's laughable when a marshmallow tries to sell a tough exterior. Regardless of how crisp the outside, the inside only gets more gooey. "What brought you to intentions is your nerd-discount bus pass."
Indignation will succeed in hardening the eyes a bit. Tony's not so much intimidated as intrigued by the play at fierceness that's evoked by protecting Ziva's chastity. She's a magnet for misplaced guards who stand at her gate wishing to shield the cartoon damsel from harm. Instead, Tony sees a world that could benefit from protection from her.
"How long's this been going on?"
"How badly do you need to write another book?"
McGee takes a deliberate step forward, gaining ground that Tony doesn't remember relinquishing. The cell has been blatantly quiet, his lack of response likely only firming her conviction to introduce the headache ploy tonight. This sparring is playing eminent domain with his time. Tony's up, demanding that his captor note the size difference.
"Look, I'm just asking..."
"You know what, McVance, when they give you the office upstairs, you can interrogate me." The arrogance of seniority is allowed to circle the room. He's not bothering to deploy rule seven because he's tired and crafting specific lies to please the audience is best reserved for undercover. "Can I go now, Director Timmy?"
"I'm just asking for an explanation. She's my coworker, too." The daggers Tim means to shoot from his eyes are more like foam darts. But even harmless projectiles can leave a mark. "And I mean, maybe you need someone to talk to."
Yes, the ear of a therapist might be useful. Hi, I'm sleeping with my partner casually because we're not equipped for more than that. Wanna hear about the dysfunction we feast on?
"And you'll be ready for that conversation when you hit puberty, young man."
"So you're admitting it?" As if breaking a prickly suspect, McGee's triumph is a practically scent in the room. Apparently victory smells of cold coffee and burned wiring.
"I forgot the question." A half-truth.
Packing up, Tony eyes the elevator, calculating the steps between him and the door. McGee hovers in offended stance off to Tony's right, not close enough to dare a block. Not that Tony would expect the junior agent to keep this talk going by physical aggression.
"Besides," Tony says around a mouthful of Red Bull, "appointing yourself Ziva's security detail only fuels her acrimony." Yup, he just tossed out a Webster's Word of the Day. "Weapons of Vast Carnage don't need babysitters."
Which is essentially admitting to it. Or something in 'it's' vicinity.
"Just looking out for her interests." Tim's confidence, a flighty thing on any day, has turned the dial of his voice toward uncertain, sentences now carrying the luggage of apology.
"Any investigator would detect that it's my interests that need surveillance."
Deadly, his pale lily. Fingers quickly send a response, spelling suffering in the haste of his departure.
/Held upp. Probi playinh gibs. Leavibg now/
In no special hurry the elevator inches toward ground level, the car is started and the phone is vibrating. Her reply. Given the pains this day has taken to torture him, Tony allows two traffic lights to pass before glancing at his cell. A stop sign witnesses his version of a rolling stop while the message is opened with all the caution afforded a ticking package.
Damn, he should have stopped completely. It would have saved the swerve.
/naked – not for u/
/wht I do?/
/Caved 2 probie's simpering glare/
Who takes the time to lob 'simpering' into a text message? She must be relaxed, sipping vodka in a bubble-plenty tub that extends no invitation to tardy lovers. The steering wheel is pivoted by nearly-steady knees, freeing both hands for the defense.
/made up 4 it w/ rousing vocab/
The screen is a black hole as the journey is concluded. The key still works, a sign of her vengeful wrath's bad planning. He's wrong about the tub and she lies about the naked. There's a fresh bowl of pasta steaming to one side of the table and she waits at the other. Dear God, it's the rare let's talk face.
McGee will never see daylight again.