A/N: Wow. Two updates in one day? It must be Spring Break! Much love, Kit.
DISCLAIMER: Alas, nothing.
XXXV.
35 inches of snow that effectively blockaded them into her apartment.
"Overnight a blanket of snow has covered a majority of the D.C. area. Now this is expected and salt trucks have been deployed, however, due to severe traffic congestion icy roads may persist for a while longer. Until then, boys, time to break out the snow shovels because Jack Frost has paid another visit to our nation's capital. . . ." the meteorologist's voice floated through the open doorway, cheerfully sarcastic at the evident forecast. . . .
"Tony?"
"Hmm?" The shower shuts off and the rustling of the shower curtain is heard from the bathroom. She pokes her head around the door in time to see him emerge, sandy brown hair mussed up, shoulders shiny with water droplets, beige towel wrapped around his waist. He looks up at her, grinning wolfishly as she stands before the mirror clad in only her underwear and bra. She glares pointedly at his reflection and he diverts his eyes only to have his gaze flicker back up when she asks, "Who is Jack Frost?"
And Tony groans silently because he knows his next six minutes will be filled with an explanation of winter's personification and an additional five minutes will be spent defending this aspect of American culture. . . .
And thirteen minutes later Ziva shrugs her acceptance of this odd American character and retreats into her closet in search of clothing.
"Hey, Ziva?"
"Yes?" her voice is muffled from the confines of her closet.
"What's the forecast?"
She appears in the doorway, tangled in her sweater, her head materializing from the folds of cashmere. "Cold," she states, bumping his hip with hers, moving him out of her way as she makes to tame her hair now electrically charged and flying in every direction.
"Cold," he repeats lamely, staring at her pointedly. "Thanks for that."
"Anytime."
"Don't know what I'd do without you."
"I know."
She saunters back out of the bathroom, purposely putting an extra swing in her stride. And with a growl, he follows her, muttering something about modesty and time constraints.
"We need a snow day," he announces as she sets his steaming mug of coffee before him. He's slouching at her kitchen table, yesterday's paper fanned out in his lap, absently picking at his toast. "We're gonna be late for work."
She snorts from her perch on the counter, coffee cup paused at her lips, reminding him, "I'm not the reason we are late."
"You're the cause of the reason we're late."
She plops down off the counter, making her way to the front door, picking up her boots, "I am only half the problem here, Tony."
"We still need a snow day," he repeats, standing up and following her after cramming his remaining toast in his mouth with a crunch.
They bundle themselves because the morning high is a crisp seventeen degrees. He shrugs on his woolen trench as Ziva slips into her own coat, the wool a pretty olive green. She winds her scarf around her neck, pulling the thick striped cashmere up over her chin and mouth, a defense against the cold. And he tugs his gloves on, and she has to help button his coat because the leather encasing his hands is preventing his ability to work the buttons at an efficient pace (and she knows he did this on purpose, because he is that shameless).
Finally, they grab their respective bags, each shouldering their burden with practiced ease, and Tony opens the door.
And an eerie silence and calming stillness greets them on the other side.
White, pristine snow is crowding on her front stoop, the icy layers as high as Tony's knee. And Ziva looks over her partner's shoulder, eyes wide because she has seen snow before but never this much. It had to be . . . .
"Three feet," he murmurs, awestruck. "It's gotta be at least three feet in some places."
And if they crane their necks, or at least if he does as she is still too short, their cars are visible. Or, at least, the white mounds rising up out of the permafrost is able to be seen.
"There is no way we are going to be able to drive in this," she states simply.
And he adds, "There's no way we're even gonna be able to leave the parking lot in this. . . . You got a snow shovel?"
"That depends," she answers silkily, "Are you going to do the shoveling." And when he doesn't give a reply to this, she amends, "I do not have a shovel."
He nods, relieved, and they stand there for a few more minutes. And then the wind picks up and they retreat inside to the warmth of her apartment.
"Yeah, boss. . . . I know, boss. . . . I will tunnel may way out if I have to. . . ." Ziva watches in prime amusement as Tony paces the length of her living room, completely engrossed in his phone conversation. She had been the first to call Gibbs, inform him that she had a head cold and would not be able to work. He had asked no questions and given her a 'feel better' before hanging up. Of course, Gibbs was not as sympathetic to his senior field agent. "Thanks, boss. Bye- He hung up," Tony announces, flipping his cell shut and plunking down next to her on the couch. "I had to promise I would tunnel my way out from my apartment if a crime scene came up. . . . You know what this means, don't you?"
"No snow ball fights," she vetoes before he can even verbalize the idea.
He pouts at her, demanding, "How am I supposed to give you a traditional American snow day if we can't have a snow ball fight?"
She sighs, standing up. "Fine. We can have a snow ball fight-" his jaw drops in surprise "-however, if that is the case, then there will be no time for a steaming bath . . . . ."
"Steaming bath? Like, together?"
"Mmhm."
And suddenly, he's past her and in the bathroom, the sound of the tap running bringing a smile to her lips. She could come to like snow days.
She really should thank Johnny Frost. . . . .
A/N: Aside from the lame last line, how am I doing? One more chapter to go, any ideas which number it should be? Anyone have any favorites? No clue what I'm talking about? Kit?